


Love Thy Neighbour

by TheIndianWinter



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bilbo isn't much better, London, M/M, Smaug is an evil pigeon, Thorin and Bilbo are Neighbours, Thorin is a grump, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIndianWinter/pseuds/TheIndianWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maintaining a healthy dislike of someone is difficult when that person is unfairly attractive, but Bilbo Baggins is sure as hell going to try his damnedest, because his new next door neighbour is quite simply the most unpleasant man he has ever met.</p><p>No matter how disconcertingly blue his eyes are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching the recent BBC adaptation of Roald Dahl's Esio Trot (which is a rather sweet love story with a tortoise at its centre) and imagined Bilbo in place of the main character, on his balcony filled with flowers.  
> Then this happened.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would seem his new neighbour was a complete wanker.

Bilbo Baggins lived a very respectable life. Though he lived alone, he was not lonely, in fact he now rather enjoyed the bachelor’s life he had once resigned himself to. Though he had means, he lived in a humble flat, in a humble building, not as plain as the great ugly concrete blocks of council estates, but nowhere near as wonderful as his childhood home in the country.

He did not mind London, but he did not love it either. Not as dearly as he loved Bag-End House and the rolling green hills that surrounded it. It was ever loud, ever busy and oftentimes cloying for a man raised in the tranquility of rural England. As such, the balcony to his small flat had been transformed into a veritable paradise, a small haven of a garden carved into dreary urban banality. His flowers gave him peace.

Bilbo Baggins considered himself an even tempered man. One did not incur his wrath easily. If one could cause such anger in him, it certainly did not endear them any.

Which explained his newfound seething dislike of a certain Mr Oakenshield, his new next door neighbour. Gripping his trowel so his knuckles turned white, he viciously attacked a weed that had sprung up in his rosebed as he fumed over his encounter earlier that day.

It had all began earlier that week when the building’s landlord, Gandalf Grey, appeared at Bilbo’s door, looming over the smaller man with that pleasant smile that usually meant trouble was afoot.

“Mr Bilbo Baggins!” he greeted, “Just the man I wish to see.”

Bilbo smiled in return, withholding his comment about how there could be none other he wanted if he was knocking on the door of Flat 22.

“Mr Gandalf,” he said politely, “Do come in.”

The grey haired man ducked into Bilbo’s flat (it never ceased to amaze him how Gandalf was so tall, he had to duck through normal doorways), with his usual admonishment for Bilbo’s formality.

The younger man, however, was already pottering about in his kitchen, preparing a pot of tea.

“So is there some reason for your visit today?”

“Indeed. Bilbo my dear man, I need your help.”

Bilbo warily eyed the man sat at his kitchen table. He was used to Gandalf’s fortnightly social visits, however last time the man had asked for his help he had ended up soaked to the bone in the middle of Kelvingrove Park in Glasgow with no recollection of quite how he had got there or why he even was there.

He still wasn’t entirely sure on that one.

Gandalf, seemingly catching Bilbo’s look of trepidation, chortled to himself.

“No, no, nothing so adventurous as last time. Goodness we wouldn’t want you to miss your dinner again, would we?”

“Or lunch,” he grumbled, as he set the tea tray down on the table. Not as adventurous as last time didn’t exclude all that much and could still make him horribly late for dinner.

“Or lunch. Perhaps your elevenses though,” the landlord conceded. Bilbo gave a small chuckle, he wasn’t all too bothered about his elevenses as long as he still got a cup of tea.

“You see,” he continued, “I’ve finally found someone to move into Flat 23. Much the same as you, I knew his father and so when I heard he was moving to London, I offered him the use of the flat.”

Bilbo smiled at that; when he had been moving to London in pursuit of convenience, he too had been contacted by his mother’s friend who owned Arda Court and offered a flat with a very reasonable price on rent (he had accepted largely because the idea of flat hunting in the capital sounded hellish and really, he wasn’t going to find anything better on his rather sad budget).

“What does this have to do with me?”

“I’d like you to help me when he moves on Saturday.”

He nearly spat out his tea.

“Me?! What could I do that could be of any use? I’m hardly one for heavy lifting.”

“True, but he will be your new neighbour, and anyway, the more the merrier.”

Bilbo sighed, “Couldn’t I just put on a lunch spread? He won’t have any food and it’d be far more in keeping with… well me.”

Gandalf beamed at him, “My dear Bilbo, that would be perfect.”

When Saturday came, Bilbo, true to his word, disappeared off to the supermarket that morning to purchase all the fresh foods he would need. Gandalf had given no indication of number, but said that the man, a Mr Oakenshield, would be bringing a few friends to help him.

He shouldered through the door to the building, letting the door shut behind him.

“Ow!”

Bilbo whirled around, rushing out a ‘sorry’ and found himself talking to a chair. He pulled the door open to allow whoever it was through, apologising once again.

“You should watch it,” snapped a deep voice. Bilbo felt a twinge of annoyance.

“I did say I was sorry.”  

A mere grunt was his only response. Bilbo began to wish that this was one of the friends and that his new neighbour would be somewhat more pleasant.

“Are you the one that’s moving in?” he asked politely, tapping the button for the lift.

“Isn’t that obvious?”

Grinding his teeth since he was also still talking to a chair, Bilbo noted that the man had a lot of hair. It looked most unkempt, practically down to his waist. He was also tall, taller than Bilbo, although that wasn’t saying very much.

Once they were in the lift, the man thankfully put his chair down but stared steadfastly at the doors, ignoring the smaller man.

Bilbo bristled at that, but forced on a smile and proffered his hand,

“You must be Mr Oakenshield then. Bilbo Baggins, I’m from Flat 22, so I’ll be your next door neighbour.”

The man slowly turned to face him then and his condescending gaze flickered from Bilbo’s face to his outstretched hand. It gave Bilbo the chance to begrudgingly admit to himself that what had been a rather attractive profile belonged to an even more handsome face. An unfairly handsome face. Especially since he did not deign to shake Bilbo’s hand and instead drawled a response, dripping in sarcasm.

“Charmed.”

By then the lift had arrived to the third floor, and the man, Mr Oakenshield, pushed past him and disappeared into his own flat, leaving a very annoyed Bilbo in his wake.

“Twat.”

He unlocked the door to his own flat and entered inside, dumping his bags just past the threshold. He could hear the sounds of movement next door as various things were dragged across the floor or dumped and he found it a strange contrast to the stillness in his own home.

Sighing, he picked up the bags again, kicking the front door shut behind him and moving to drop them on the kitchen table.

Regardless of this Mr Oakenshield’s unpleasantness, he had still offered to provide a lunch as a favour to Gandalf, so prepare a lunch he must.

It was only ten o’clock, so setting a reminder on his mobile for an hour and a half, he retreated to his balcony with one of his red leather bound writing books, scrawling out a scene he had been planning for a long time; a confrontation between his main character, Eärendil, and the fearsome Ancalagon Black.

Once he had completed a satisfactory draft of the pivotal scene, he relaxed back against the cast iron chair, tapping his pen upon the page.

Though it was a temperate day in late May, it was warm and sunny enough to draw out a lot of the neighbourhood children to the park hidden behind the opposing block of flats. Bilbo was content to sit there, the far-off squeals of delighted children drifting into his ears and the swirling images of scenarios for his characters in his mind’s eye.

He did not realise how long he merely sits there until his phone goes off, it’s tinny rendition of the Beach Boys jolting him back to reality. With a sigh, he really hadn’t been quite as productive as he’d hoped, he returned indoors and set about pulling the lunch spread together.

What he ended up with, was a modest yet varied affair that he felt would appeal to whatever tastes his new neighbour and his friends may have.

There was a cheese board, some sliced french bread, a platter of cold meats and a bowl of potato salad, all arranged around a large colourful bowl of salad with lettuce and tomatoes and peppers and many other kinds of vegetables that Bilbo had spent many pains in layering carefully. There were also mini sausage-rolls and two pots of breadsticks, firm favourites at any buffet Bilbo had ever been to. Regrettably, he hadn’t had chance to whip together a batch of something homebaked.

After dusting some imaginary crumbs from his trousers, he straightened his velvet waistcoat and eyed his table proudly; he’d even arranged it so it was a symmetrical as possible.

The door to Flat 23 was open, but he still rapped his knuckles on the dark wood and waited, refusing to give in to his curiosity and peek at the interior.

Just as his increasing temptation was making him start to lean around the door, his vision was blocked by the scowling figure of his tall neighbour. There was a sheen of sweat upon his brow and Bilbo thought it was most unfair - sweat was meant to be shiny and slightly gross, not glistening and disconcerting and attractive.  

“What?” he bit out.

Thank goodness for small mercies. If the man wasn’t such a grumpy arse, Bilbo was quite certain he’d forget himself.

Realising he still hadn’t said anything, and Mr Oakenshield was glaring at him with those piercing blue eyes, he drew himself to his full (not very great) height and turned on his haughtiness.

“I don’t know if Gandalf told you, but as a favour to _him_ -” because there was no way Bilbo was letting this, this curmudgeon, think he was doing anything for him willingly “-I’ve provided you all with lunch. Just a simple spread, so come and help yourselves whenever you feel like it.”

He grunted something that sounded vaguely like a ‘thank you’ and returned inside.  

Almost an hour had passed by the time anyone arrived, and Bilbo was sat, twirling a pen around his fingers as he grazed on some bread and cheese, mulling over a suitable title for his latest book.

The knock was loud, the kind that belonged to someone know didn’t quite know their own strength. Bilbo leapt up and answered the door and...oh my.

The man on his threshold was enormous, with a shaved head and an impressive greying beard. His tan skin was drowned out by the great dark tattoos that ran up his arms and under the sleeves of his black t-shirt. For lack of a better term, he looked exactly like one of those bikers the elder generations back in Tuckborough were always tutting about.

He was also looking down at Bilbo, his expression a mixture of amused and expectant.

“Err…”

“I hear there’s food laddie?”

Bilbo nodded, pulling himself from his reverie.

“Right. Of course. This way.”

Did he really just call him _laddie_? At thirty-seven it had been a long time since anyone had called him laddie - it was especially odd coming from someone who couldn’t be more than ten years his senior.

“Help yourself,” he said, gesturing to his kitchen table. “Oh and by the way, my name is Bilbo Baggins.”

“Dwalin,” he said, before stuffing a piece of smoked ham into his mouth. “‘M Thorin’s friend.”

“Thorin?... Oh you mean Mr Oakenshield!”

Dwalin snorted, but said nothing further and chomped down on a breadstick as he loaded up a plate - Bilbo noted with some chagrin that he was completely avoiding his lovely salad.

He hovered by the table, hands fluttering as he was quite unsure of what to do with himself, then the door went again and he rushed to answer it. This time, it was a more reasonable sized man with tufty grey hair and a beard to match. He was also wearing tweed - Bilbo had great respect for people who wore tweed - and had no visible tattoos.

“Hello there,” he greeted. “My name is Balin.” He was Scottish, like Dwalin. He wondered if they were related, despite the fact they had no real resemblance, since their names matched. “I believe my brother’s here?”

Ah so he was right then. Apparently, his parents weren’t the only ones who liked themed naming (Bilbo, Belladonna and Bungo, really, so many ‘B’s).

“Right this way,” he gestured towards the kitchen. “I’m Bilbo.”

“It’s a pleasure laddie.”

Again with the ‘laddie’. Perhaps it was a family thing.

Though Balin seemed a far more respectable individual - he actually used the cutlery Bilbo had set aside, instead of just stuffing food in his face - he too neglected the salads and so Bilbo didn’t feel quite so bad digging in.

Once he had filled his own plate up with a healthy mix of foods, the door went again, and Bilbo sighed heavily, leaving his plate on the countertop as he went to answer.

It was not one of his neighbour’s friends, but his own friend, Bofur, from down the hall. And he’d completely forgotten that he’d agreed to go out for lunch. Apologising profusely, he waved Bofur in and led him to the kitchen.

“Bilbo, it’s fine,” Bofur placated, “We can go out next weekend.”

“Well I must insist you at least stay for lunch.”

Bofur smiled and Bilbo was glad to note that he at least had _some_ green food. He cast his friend a curious look once he noticed the two men sat down and Bilbo jumped to correct his oversight and introduce them.

Barely had his fingers brushed his china plate when the door went again.

“I should have left that blasted door open!” he cursed to himself.

This time, it was Gandalf, Mr Oakenshield himself, and one of his friends, a portly man with an incredible red beard.

“Bilbo my good man!” Gandalf greeted, “Hope there’s enough for us all!”

“There’s more than enough.”

“I should hope so, I’m bloody starving!” exclaimed the redhead. He turned to Bilbo and held out his hand. “Glóin Durin, at your service.”

Shaking his hand firmly, Bilbo replied, “Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”

He couldn’t resist the slight pointed look at his rude neighbour before letting go and leading them to the kitchen where the others were. Mr Oakenshield seemed a mite more pleasant around his friends, but was still waspish enough that Bilbo decided his default was in fact being a grump.

Gandalf had engaged Balin in a conversation about his teaching job so Bilbo lingered in the corner, chatting with Bofur as he finally got to eat.

“There’s so much salad,” he heard Glóin complain. Bilbo huffed to himself, noting Balin and Dwalin didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish for eating so much of the meat.

“It seems Master Baggins has a great love of vegetables,” Mr Oakenshield commented. And oh, his voice was rich and so condescending. “He should be a green grocer.” At this he dragged his eyes up and down Bilbo’s form. “He most certainly looks the part.”

He nearly choked on a potato. “How do I look like a green grocer?”

The dark haired man shrugged, “It’s a dated profession.”

“Are you saying I look old?” he spluttered.

He raised an eyebrow incredulously, “You’re wearing a velvet waistcoat.”

Bilbo harrumphed, touching the hem of his waistcoat self-consciously. “At least I’ve had a haircut in the past year,” he muttered.

Oakenshield glared.

“Enough you two,” Gandalf admonished, and despite his stern tone, there was an amused twinkle in his eyes.

Mr Oakenshield went back to eating, stabbing his plate with such ferocity that Bilbo began to worry for the sake of his mother’s china.

Bofur leaned into him, “What crawled up his arse and died?”

Bilbo snorted.

It would seem his new neighbour was a complete wanker.

* * *

Fortunately, he did not see much of Mr Oakenshield after that, and if their paths crossed, it was only to glare at one another. It seemed Mr Oakenshield did not have the same habits as Bilbo; his days were spent at work and he rarely ventured out onto his balcony whilst Bilbo spent an increasing amount of time on his as spring turned into summer. After about three weeks had passed, Bilbo had a nine o’clock meeting with his publisher, and so, red leather book in hand, he left the flat with plenty of time and found himself following Mr Oakenshield into the lift. He would have waited, or taken the stairs, but it seemed a bit silly, he was a grown man after all.

Oakenshield spent the entire ride down trying to burn holes in the lift doors with his eyes.

Barely had the lift doors opened, and he was off, storming across the foyer. Bilbo smirked, secretly enjoying how much of an annoyance his mere presence seemed to be.

The journey across town was just as uneventful and unpleasant as any journey on the Tube was wont to be.

Soon enough, he arrived at the publishing house and was greeted by Ori Mazar, the editor he worked with closely, who led him across the lobby, chatting excitedly about a new fantasy series he had found. Bilbo liked him well enough; he was young, shy yet excitable and with a penchant for knitted ties.

“So any idea what your brother wants me for?” he asked once they were in the lift.

Ori beamed, “You’ll have to wait an see.”

At least it was good news - the boy was practically bouncing on his toes.

The anticipation was well and truly curling around Bilbo’s gut as the door dinged and slid open onto the floor where Nori was. Ori gave him a light push and he stepped out, smiling over his shoulder.

“Come and see me after!” he called, words almost lost to the closing doors.

Nori’s head appeared around the door of his office and he gave Bilbo a rakish grin.

“If it isn’t my dear friend Tilion Took,” he drawled, sounding even more casual than he usually did, which meant he probably wanted something. Bilbo gave him an unimpressed look as he stepped into the airy office.

Perching himself on the edge of his mahogany desk, Nori gestured for Bilbo to join him in the leather armchair opposite.

“Before we get to the main reason I called you here today, I have a favour to ask,” Nori said as Bilbo sat down.

He merely quirked an eyebrow in response.

“A book signing. In London.”

Bilbo stared at him flatly. Nori knew his stance on these things.

“I know you like your anonymity, but being honest, you’re hardly likely to bump into anyone you know. And the publicity won’t hurt. Especially with what I’ve got to tell you.”

Bilbo had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t be hearing the news until he agreed. Nori was tricky like that, also terrifyingly persuasive. And he did have a fair point in regards to the publicity. And Bilbo did quite like meeting his fans face to face and seeing the wide range of people whose lives he’d managed to touch in his own small way.

“Alright, I’ll do it.”

Nori smiled, the kind of smile that indicated he knew Bilbo would agree all along, and passed him a post-it note.

“Here’s the initial details, it’ll be at Blackwells, second Saturday in July, I’ll e-mail you all the finer points tomorrow.”

Bilbo stuck it to the inside cover of his notebook, just above the golden embossed ‘Westmarch’s’.

“Now,” Nori clapped his hands together, “Onto the good stuff; New Line Cinema wants to buy the rights to the Wardens of Rhûn.”

Straight to the point as always, Nori gave Bilbo no time to recover or respond in any way before continuing to talk. Bilbo wasn’t listening, but staring unseeingly at the hilt of Nori’s sword-replica letter-opener that had been stabbed through some papers into the desk in lieu of a paperweight.

The film rights.

They wanted to buy the film rights.

“Bilbo!”

Nori was smirking at him.

“You weren’t listening, were you?”

At least Bilbo had the decency to attempt a chastened look around his shellshock.

Once Nori had explained the bare bones of the proposal to him (thankfully, Bilbo, should the venture proceed, would be given some creative input) so he could begin negotiations, Bilbo took the lift down to Ori’s office.

He was a mature and dignified individual, and therefore he never made any high pitched noises such as squealing, but really, his book could soon be a film!

* * *

Bilbo was in such a good mood all that week and well into the next that not even a sudden three-day summer rainstorm could dampen it. Nor did bumping into Mr Oakenshield, whose glares had taken on an edge somewhere between worried and confused at Bilbo’s sunny disposition.  

He was stood out on his balcony, breathing in the earthy smell that lingered after rain; it was not nearly so pleasant here as in the country, but he was glad that the city air hadn’t smothered it entirely. Whilst he was checking on his delphiniums, a deep voice sounded out behind him.

“What is it with you and the flowers?”

Bilbo whirled around to see Mr Oakenshield, reclined casually against the railing of his own balcony, a glass of water clasped in his hand.

“I like them,” he said with a shrug, not wishing to elaborate lest he get drawn into a conversation with his neighbour. His good mood had lasted all week.

He turned back to his flowers, but it seemed Oakenshield did not want to let the conversation go.

“Do you even have a job?” he asked bluntly.

Bilbo whirled around, incredulous, “ _Excuse me_?”

He said nothing more, instead taking a long drink from his glass of water. It was not in any way an attractive gesture.

“If you must know,” he answered snottily, “I’m a writer.”

“Ah,” and there was that condescending smirk again. “So you’re a bartender then.”

He would not rise to the bait any further than he already had, so he merely growled and stomped off inside, hoping the middle finger he waved in his neighbour’s direction was subtle enough that the man didn’t actually see it.

* * *

As was the occurrence on so many other mornings, the morning when Bilbo had the book signing he was awoken by a loud, obnoxious cooing.

Smaug.

Gritting his teeth, Bilbo shoved one of his pillows onto his face, begging for just enough peace for ten minutes more sleep; his alarm would probably go off soon anyway.

‘ _Coo coo_.’

No such luck.

‘ _Coo coo_.’

Oh how he hated that pigeon so.

Without fail, come rain or shine, or whatever meteorological delight London's climate decided to throw at its inhabitants, Smaug the pigeon would perch atop the railings to the balcony outside and call really, really loudly. Louder than he ever thought possible for a pigeon.

But Smaug was no ordinary pigeon. Oh no. He was clever. He was evil. No attempts to get rid of the foul beast had worked.

Not even the anti pigeon spikes. Instead, Smaug had just sat on the edge of one of his pots of irises, managing to knock it over and spill soil and flowers all over the balcony. Then, to add insult to injury, the infernal creature had crapped all over his gardenias.

‘ _Coo coo_.’

With a groan of exasperation, Bilbo got up to go and make himself a cup of breakfast tea, glaring at the grey bird through the screen door. The hot beverage soothed his temper somewhat, enough that a small smile curled at his lips whilst he prepared his breakfast and by the time he had finished his bacon and eggs he was sufficiently content to deal with London’s public transport without reaching the book signing with a mood blacker than Smaug’s soul.

He arrived right on time, half an hour before the signing was due to begin and was a little surprised and very touched by the queue already amassing to see him. One of the bookshop attendants, a tall, stern-faced young man by the name of Lindir, led him through the maze of bookshelves to his desk, a long table, covered by a red cloth, with stacks of the two released books in the Wardens of Rhûn quadrilogy and flanked by two large cardboard banners, each boldly proclaiming his _nom de plume_ and the covers of the first two books and the third, along with its October release date.

“Really, you cannot spend more than a minute with each person, and it’s one book per person, after all, we’ve got to keep it moving.”

Bilbo nodded, settling himself in the chair before taking out his trusty fountain pen.

After about an hour he was really getting into the swing of things; it was an absolute delight to speak to his fans and to hear all their own speculations for how they thought the story would develop, some almost accurate, others startlingly farfetched.

He was charmed in particular by one little girl, called Rosie, of around 11 who had the most battered, well-loved copy of his first book that he’d ever seen.

“Finally saved up enough pocket money to buy this,” she said, excitedly as she handed him a new copy of his second book. She scratched her arm in a sheepish gesture, “I keep getting tempted away and buying nail varnish.”

He looked to her fingers then and saw that each finger was painted with a different colour of polish.

“Well we all have our vices,” he smiled, “I myself have twenty different varieties of tea in my kitchen.”

He finished writing a nice message in the book and handed it over. “Here, take it, that way you could buy yourself a new nail polish today as well,”

She beamed at him, “Or I could wait until October and buy your book when it comes out for once.”

Bilbo gave a laugh, “Or that.”

Bilbo caught Lindir giving him a look and Rosie seemed to catch on, skipping away with the book clutched to her chest.

“Thank you Mr Took!”

During his half an hour lunch break, Lindir had pulled him aside and asked him to please refrain from giving away too many copies of the books and Bilbo had taken heed of that, though he quite liked the idea of giving the books out freely (Nori would probably have given him an earful for his troubles as well).

As the afternoon progressed, he mused that he would have much rather spent more time with each individual instead of the fleeting moments he got, but in the long run, he supposed, it was probably better that he got to see more people, than less.

His reverie was abruptly broken by an all too familiar deep voice.

“Mr Baggins?”

No, no, Nori had him certain that he wouldn’t encounter anybody he knew, London was after all, such a large place.

He looked up, swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat, and sure enough there he was: Mr Oakenshield.

Well, _damn_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Have begun next chapter already, so hopefully will have it up before a week is up.  
> Thanks for reading  
> India


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin had been expecting an ageing, eccentric man who wore too many colours and some kind of jaunty hat; someone befitting of the ridiculous name ‘Tilion Took’.
> 
> He was certainly expecting someone far more impressive than fussy Mr Baggins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I'm overwhelmed by the response. Thank you so much to all of you who read/kudos'd/bookmarked/commented, it means a lot!

Thorin had never been the most civil of people, and he was mature enough to accept it. What he couldn’t quite figure out, was why he was quite so rude to Mr Baggins next door.

He was dazed, he would say to himself. The door that had smacked the chair back into his forehead had knocked him off kilter.

He also did not like it when people were polite for the sake of it; he was well aware that he was terse at best, but that was him and he felt no need to hide it.

However, if he was being well and truly honest with himself, he knew that there was something he couldn’t quite name, something he didn’t quite want to acknowledge that was making him behave worse around Mr Baggins.

And it was entirely the fault of his neighbour and those stupid bright eyes of his.

He did attempt to apologise for his rudeness once, well, he said _attempted_ , it was more a case of the words gnarling up in his throat and entirely different ones coming out.

He’d just made the whole situation worse, not that it really mattered; the man seemed to disregard his usual enforced politeness around Thorin and grumble and glare away.

And what was it with the _flowers_?

He glared at said flora, their bright colours muted in the low light of dusk as he relished in the milder air that the evenings brought. The office was getting worse with each day.

“So does that fit with you?” prompted the voice at the other end of the line.

Thorin realised with a grimace that he had not been paying attention.

“Oh… erm, yeah fine.”

His sister made an agitated sound in her throat, “You haven’t been listening have you?”

He could almost picture her then, teeth gritted and slim fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. It was an image reminiscent of their mother and Thorin nearly chuckled, but reigned it in lest he further incur his sister’s wrath.

“I’m sending the boys to you for the third week in July, I have a huge implementation at work, so I could really do with some peace. Plus they’re dying to see you.”

Thorin nodded, “Send them down on the Friday, I can take a half day and pick them up at the station.”

“Perfect. Well I’ve got to go, it’s time to get Kíli to bed. I’ll speak to you in the week, okay?”

“Goodnight Dís,” he said with a smile tugging at his lips.

“Night Thorin,” he could tell she was grinning, “You old moron.”

He stayed on his balcony for a while longer, thinking up things to do when his beloved nephews came to visit. He had no great love for the capital, but he knew Fíli and especially Kíli were excited, had been since he announced his move, to see the city for all the possibility it held.

Darkness had now fallen and the sky was tinged with the warm glow that came from the scattered orange streetlights that stretched as far as the eye could see and Thorin sighed heavily, tugging at his long hair where it joined his neck.

He would have to get it cut soon, it’s length was almost unbearable and this blasted city would only get warmer as summer wore on.

Sometimes, he wished he could view the world with the same youthful optimism of his nephews, as opposed the jaded manner that came from being far too close to fifty for comfort.

* * *

Barely, it seemed, had he chance to nephew-proof his flat and prepare the guest room for arrival, then they were there, filling up his empty rooms with their boundless energy.

He had gone to pick them up at the station and found Fíli sat with his younger brother on a bench, scanning the bustling crowd whilst Kíli scowled at his game console in concentration. He looked up when his brother nudged him, and Thorin soon had his arms full of his dark haired nephew.

“Uncle Thorin!”

“Hey trouble,” he set Kíli back down on the ground and turned to the elder. Fíli and he smiled at one another, and clasped hands (he had been greatly amused a few years earlier, when, with all the solemnity of a teen who took themselves too seriously, Fíli had insisted that he was too old to be embraced and would instead prefer a manly handshake) and then Thorin had affectionately pulled him into a (manly) hug.

As he led them over to the escalator that lead down to the Tube, Fíli smirked and pointed out the writing covering the back of Thorin’s left hand.

“That explains why you weren’t late to pick us up.”

“Ooh let me see!” Kíli grabbed his uncle’s hand excitedly and then giggled, “Directions for the Tube here. Please don’t get us lost going back!”

Thorin tugged his hand back to himself, huffing, “That’s simple, you just reverse it. I’m not that directionally challenged, you know.”

The pair had just given him a look then evocative of their mother, that scrutinising mixture of amusement and incredulity that tempered much of Dís’ interaction with her brother.

“Anyway, how hungry are you guys? I was thinking about ordering pizza for tea, but that will take a while.”

“Pizza!” Kíli shouted happily, drawing an angry look from a man near them on the platform. Even Fíli allowed himself a grin, “We ate on the train, so we’ll be fine until later.”

Once they were sat on the Tube, Kíli started chattering immediately about one of his favourite authors who was doing a book signing the following morning. The boy was practically bouncing in his seat at the thought of meeting the guy and he was looking up at his uncle, his eyes wide and innocent, something both boys knew worked a charm on him.

And he knew it as well.

He glanced to Fíli who had been watching on in amusement, “Are you okay if we go?”

“Aye,” his nephew shrugged, “I quite like Took’s stuff myself.”

“Alright then, so we’ll go to that in the afternoon and then in the evening I was going to take you boys out for dinner. How do burgers sound?”

Kíli responded with his usual bout of enthusiasm and the rest of the journey back to his flat was spent coming up with ideas of things to do.

* * *

Thorin hadn’t even realised he’d spoken until there was a response,

“Mr Oakenshield?”

Three pairs of wide eyes stared at him and he was certain his own were just as disbelieving.

Then he felt a bit of annoyance, mainly at the fact that if fate was real, then it was certainly having great fun screwing with him, because really, there was no other reason why after queuing for bloody hours he was faced with his next door neighbour.

Fíli complained the entire time about the length of the queue and how they’d have been much quicker, if not for their uncle’s incompetence on the London Underground. Thorin didn’t consider it incompetence, it was too many lines and too many colours and too many changes and it made his head hurt.

Kíli had spent the entire time bouncing on his toes and talking endlessly about the books and the mysterious author. Apparently he didn’t come out in public much.

Thorin had been expecting an ageing, eccentric man who wore too many colours and some kind of jaunty hat; someone befitting of the ridiculous name ‘Tilion Took’.

He was certainly expecting someone far more impressive than fussy Mr Baggins.

“Uncle Thorin, you know him?” Kíli’s eyes were wide in wonder and even the seventeen year old Fíli looked impressed.

“I’m his neighbour,” Mr Baggins smiled, taking the book his younger nephew had clutched to his chest since they joined the queue. “And who might you boys be?”

“I’m Kíli,” the dark haired boy declared proudly, puffing up his chest. “And this is my brother Fíli, he pretends he’s too cool for your books but he likes them really.”

The man laughed, raising his eyebrows at the blond, “Does he now?”

Fíli rolled his eyes, handing over his own book to be autographed. “Hardly. I’m just not obsessed like you.”

Kíli pouted, “I’m not _obsessed_ , Mr Took is just really good.”

Mr Baggins flushed at the praise and the sight was not in any way endearing.

Then the irritating assistant was trying to shoo them away and Mr Baggins smiled at the boys and smirked Thorin, handing him a piece of paper he had quickly scrawled on.

Thorin had no chance to look at it before they left the bookshop, but once he was one the street, he glanced at the elegant cursive and what he saw had him torn between humour and annoyance.

‘ _Told you: not a bartender_.’

* * *

Thorin left his two nephews arguing playfully over the jar of Nutella and stepped outside into the cooler morning air, sipping at his mug of black coffee. Despite the light breeze, it was warm still and would only get hotter as the day wore on. He tugged at his ponytail that even now was uncomfortable on the nape of his neck; he would have to get it cut next week.

The loud sound of a bird call drew his attention to the very large pigeon perched on the railing of Mr Baggins’ balcony. At its ankle was a yellow tag with ‘SMAUG’ marked upon it in black capitals. He supposed that was the bird he could hear most mornings as he left for work.

Just as he was about to retreat inside, driven by the irritating pigeon, he heard the door to Mr Baggins’ flat open and the man himself appeared, crossing his arms and fixing the bird with a look one would give a misbehaving child.  

Leaning over the railing that was about two foot from his neighbour’s, he felt his lips tilt in amusement as Mr Baggins failed to notice him, locked in his staring match with the pigeon that cooed almost defiantly back.

“What are you doing?”

He turned his nonplussed gaze onto Thorin then gestured vaguely at the bird.

“Trying to scare off this infernal creature.”

He quirked an eyebrow, “By what? Huffing at it?”

Mr Baggins scowled slightly, his lips pursing. It was strangely adorable.

“No, by intimidating it away.”

At the light flush that coloured his cheeks, Thorin guessed the small man was aware of how ridiculous he sounded.  

"Because you're just the most terrifying creature I've ever met,” he teased.

Puffing his chest out proudly, Mr Baggins’ eyes met Thorin’s, blue blazing fiercely.

“I’ll have you know, I was the most fearsome conkers player in the entirety of Little Bagshot.”

Thorin could not help the snort of laughter that bubbled in his throat at that and soon Mr Baggins’ look of indignation melted away into a small grin.

“What are you and the boys doing today?” he asked after a beat of silence.

“I think both of them are particularly keen to see the Science Museum.”

“Well you may want to head there soon; when Bofur and I went there with his brother’s brood last summer the queue went around the block.”

Thorin nodded and mumbled a ‘thanks’, draining the rest of his coffee as he violently quashed the question that bubbled up in his mind as to the nature of his neighbour’s relationship with the cheery man down the hall. It was none of his business.

Just as Thorin opened his mouth to speak, Mr Baggins turned back to the pigeon, jabbing his finger sharply in it’s direction.

“And you,” he growled. “Don’t think this is over, I will destroy you.”

Chuckling to himself, he returned inside.

Perhaps Mr Baggins wasn’t quite the great, overly-polite stick-in-the-mud he’d first thought him to be.

* * *

The good thing, Thorin supposed, about living in London was that it rained far less frequently than it did in and around Glasgow (where, as his sister said; it either was raining, had just rained, or was about to rain), but that usually meant that when it did, it was unexpected which made the sudden rain shower he was in all the worse.

Which explained his displeasure as, looking like a drowned rat, he dragged two equally bedraggled nephews in, leaving a trail of water on the polished floor of Arda Court’s lobby.

“Mr Thorin Oakenshield!” called the voice of his eccentric landlord from the lift. “Do hurry, I suppose you’ll want to get inside and dry.”

Thorin stepped into the lift and managed a grim smile, which turned into a scowl as Kíli insisted on shaking himself out like a wet dog, splashing his uncle, brother and the dry man who had nicely held the lift open for them. His scolding was cut off by a deep chuckle from Gandalf.

“Fíli and Kíli, my how big you’ve both grown. It must have been a good eight years since I saw you both.”

Fíli smiled, “I remember, Mr Gandalf, Mum was so annoyed because you gave us a massive bag of popping candy and we ate it all and Kíli went crazy.”

Gandalf grinned, “Yes your mother gave me quite the telling-off for that.”

“Mum will jump at any chance to give a good telling-off,” Kíli chimed in with a pout. “She tells me off all the time.”

“She tells me off too,” Thorin said, “So don’t think you can escape it by growing up.”

Gandalf stepped out on the third floor and turned to Thorin with a smile. “I was just about to join Bilbo for tea, I’m sure he’d be more than happy for you to join once you’ve dried off. Wouldn’t you Bilbo?” he addressed his last question to the dark blond head that had poked out of Number 22.

Mr Baggins blinked for a moment then nodded, “Of course.”

The man was probably just being polite, as always.

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense, Mr Oakenshield, it’s no trouble,” he smiled warmly, “And anyway, there’s no way Gandalf and I can finish all the cookies I made to ourselves.”

Thorin suddenly found Kíli and even Fíli giving him the Innocent Pleading Eyes of Doom.

He sighed, “We’ll be through in a moment, after we’ve dried off.”

He ushered Fíli and Kíli into his flat, but lingered for a moment to offer a grateful smile.

“Thank you Mr Baggins.”

Bilbo scoffed, swatting at the air dismissively, “Oh there’ll be none of that. And please, call me Bilbo.”

“Then you must call me Thorin. None of that Mr Oakenshield crap.”

He didn’t miss Gandalf’s smirk or his wink as the two of them disappeared into Bilbo’s flat.

Soon enough, he was sat at the small kitchen table, a warm mug of tea in his hands.

Poor Bilbo didn’t seem quite to know what to do with himself when he was descended upon by Kíli who was chattering excitedly, firing off questions at a mile a minute. Fíli was watching his brother in amusement, trying to appear mature even as he stuffed his face with several of Bilbo’s chocolate chip cookies.

It seemed his neighbour had no clue when it came to dealing with children outside the context of his stories.

Gandalf obviously had a similar idea, as he intervened, wondering if Bilbo would perhaps like to show Kíli his study where he did a lot of his writing.

The man visible relaxed as Kíli released his arm and led the boy into the small room, the equivalent of which Thorin had turned into his guestroom for the boys. Through the doorway he could see a large wooden desk and a huge floor to ceiling bookcase, all in the same dark wood as the rest of the other huge bookcases Bilbo had dotted about his flat. Apparently, the man liked his reading.

Almost reverently, Kíli stepped into the room and ran his fingers over the edge of the desk.

“This is where you write the Wardens of Rhûn?”

“A lot of the time, yes,” Bilbo explained, “In here, or on the balcony, though it’s mainly just the small bits and the tweaking. And all of the typing. Most of the first drafts get written back at my old home in Gloucestershire.”

“Do you not write the first draft on your computer?”

Bilbo shook his head, pulling out one of the red leather bound books that filled up most of the study’s bookshelves.

“I prefer writing by hand, I find it flows more easily. I write them in these, my father used to get his journals handmade at a shop here in London and the selfsame man creates all of mine for me.”

Kíli looked as if he’d been handed the Holy Grail, opening it carefully and scanning the first page.

“This is the beginning,” he breathed, the quietest Thorin had seen him in a long time.

Bilbo took the red leather book that had been sat on the desk, “And this is the one I’m currently using, I’m working on the final book.”

“Does Eärendil win?”

“You’ll have to wait,” Bilbo said amusedly, placing the book back in it’s spot on the desk.

Thorin didn’t realise how closely he had been watching Bilbo and his nephew interact until a pointed cough from Gandalf pulled his attention back to the table. He did not like the twinkling look in the man’s grey eyes.

He nearly spilled his tea when Kíli tore out of Bilbo’s study squealing, clutching something in his arms. Carefully, he laid it upon the table, dark eyes wide in wonder.

“Fíli, Bilbo gave me a manuscript of _The Last Kings of Imladris_.”

Four sets of eyes snapped to the man lingering in the doorway.

“That’s very kind of you Bilbo,” Gandalf commented.

“I have no need of that extra copy,” he shrugged. “I’m sorry I only have one spare Fíli so you’ll have to share.”

Fíli nodded, eyes wide as he gently touched the book, “It’s not an issue, I just can’t believe you’re giving this to us.”

“So long as you don’t give that to anyone else. Oh and please do tell me what you think of it when you’re done. That number on the cover is the number for Bag-End. I’m going there for the rest of summer.”

“To write?” Thorin found himself asking.

“Yes, and just to forewarn you, Bofur will be dropping round to look after the flowers.”

Thorin bit down his own offer because his annoyance was unfounded and really, he understood nothing of plants.

“Right, no ringing up the police to cry burglary.”

The rest of their tea passed by in the gentle hum of conversation between the three adults and Fíli. Thorin would have been worried at the quiet and general lack of Kíli had he not found him ensconced in an armchair in the sitting room, nose already buried in the book. He sighed; it was going to be difficult to tear the boy away in order to get him packed and on the train tomorrow.

* * *

Thorin tried to tell himself that he enjoyed the quiet that enveloped his flat at Fíli and Kíli’s departure, but it only served to remind them how solitary his life could feel, now that he lived so far from Scotland, where his closest friends and family resided.

He occasionally bumped into Bilbo in the hallway, or when they were both on the balconies and they would both exchange a small amount of light conversation before going about their business.

Busying himself with work made the week progress quicker and soon enough it was Saturday and he found himself facing a moment he had been dreading.

“You want it all off sir?” asked the friendly hairdresser, unaware of the appropriate gravitas she needed for such a moment.

He nodded mournfully. If it was bad, he supposed he could feasibly blame it on madness caused by the oppressive heat.

When it was all done, he sighed, running a hand over his new, short hair. It wasn’t too bad, though he could already feel the strange absence of his long dark locks.

After paying, he went to the Green Dragon, where he had agreed to meet Dwalin in the pub garden.

His friend was already there, a cold pint of Tennant’s waiting for him.

Dwalin took one look at him and laughed.

“Makes your grey more obvious,” he said.

Thorin punched him in the arm, “Fuck off. You’re just jealous that I still have hair.”

“I have a better beard than you though.”

Thorin snorted, “You wish.”

The pair drank the remainder of the afternoon away, laughing and bickering much as they always did, only retreating indoors when the sparse white clouds turned into great ominous black ones and the air became heavy with the threat of rain.

By the time they were both on their tenth pints, Thorin was rather starting to feel the effects of the alcohol as was Dwalin, but found he didn’t really care and instead challenged Dwalin to see who could finish their first.

As the loser (but only by a bit!), he wobbled over to the bar and gestured to the barman, Bofur, to serve him the next round.

Whilst he was fishing in his wallet, the door to the pub swung open and in marched a slightly damp Bilbo, brimming with barely restrained glee.

He let out a garbled array of sounds that Thorin guessed were meant to be words and launched himself across the bar to hug his friend.

He settled himself down after a moment, straightening his shirt and smiling up at Thorin, finally noticing his presence.

“What’s got you so happy?”

At Thorin’s question, the startlingly bright grin returned full force,

“New Line bought the rights to the entire Wardens series. They’re making a film!”

Thorin grinned in return, “Congratulations!” he said, sweeping him up into an embrace of his own, an act that he would never have contemplated were it not for the sheer amounts of liquid courage coursing through his veins at that moment. He noticed Bilbo stiffen at the unexpected gesture, then he relaxed and patted the large man’s back awkwardly.

“Thorin, you’re kind of crushing me.”

Hurriedly, he let go, turning to Bofur and furiously hoping that his burning cheeks weren’t too apparent.

“You got your hair cut.” Bilbo commented quietly, punctuating his statement with an awkward cough.

Thorin ran a hand through his hair; it had been combed back earlier, though not it had become dishevelled and there was one particular tendril that kept falling in his eyes.

“It was getting too long.”

“Well, I..err...I think it looks nice.”

“Thank you,” he replied, smiling in part at the compliment and in part because Bilbo was _blushing_.

Once he had his drinks, that Bofur insisted were on the house in celebration, he left Bilbo and his friend at the bar and rejoined Dwalin at their table.

He did not like Dwalin’s knowing smirk at that moment.

“Shut the fuck up,” he grumbled.

“I didn’t say anything, “ was the far too innocent retort.

**  
  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primula was grinning now and elbowed him playfully. “You like him.”
> 
> “No I do not!” he protested, much too quickly.
> 
> “Yes you do!” she prodded him in the chest accusingly, “You were beaming like an idiot when I poked my head in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm wow guys, you're seriously the best! Thank you once again for reading/giving kudos/commenting, it's greatly appreciated.  
> Feel free to hit me up on [Tumblr](http://theindianwinter.tumblr.com/), where I post writing updates etc  
> Hope you enjoy!

Thorin had had his hair cut.

It wasn’t something particularly unusual or remarkable, but it still blindsided him slightly when he noticed.

He blamed it on the hug, because after all, Thorin _hugged_ him and though his surly neighbour wasn’t quite so surly towards him anymore, he definitely wasn’t the hugging type; in Bilbo’s mind at least.

Helpfully, his mind conjured up brief flashes of other situations in which he could feel those warm arms around him again and he was eternally grateful that he was at that moment pressed against Thorin’s chest so the man could not see his heated face.

Then he awkwardly complimented his new hair and he knew his face was _flaming_ and hoped desperately that Thorin was just tipsy enough not to notice.

Or in fact notice that he was staring because really, the long hair had not done him justice and now, shorter it only served to accentuate just how nice a face the man had been blessed with; all strong nose and sharp cheeks and piercing blue eyes that had no effect on Bilbo’s mental processes whatsoever.

He really didn’t know what had come over him.

Quickly, he trained the celebratory glass of prosecco Bofur had given him, pointedly ignoring his friend’s knowing look.

“I know you said you two were _friendly_ now-” he began teasingly, only to be cut off by Bilbo’s glare.

“Bofur, finish that sentence and God help me I will shove that hat of yours so far down your throat you shit it out.”

Bofur tutted as he refilled his glass, “I wasn’t going to say anything rude my dear Bilbo.”

He fixed his friend with his infamous nonplussed look.

“Indeed not,” Bofur continued, his expression far too innocent for Bilbo’s tastes, “And if your mind went down that path, well that just screams of your own depravity.”

Bilbo scowled at the fact that he couldn't reasonably argue as such thoughts had occurred to him and also because he knew he was blushing furiously.

Then he smoothed out his features and decided to feign ignorance instead.

"I have no idea what on earth you're talking about," he sniffed. As soon as Bofur placed the refilled wine glass before him, he gulped it down.

“So you mean to say you’ve never thought about it?”

Bofur seriously just waggled his eyebrows at him, didn’t he?

“Of course I have!” he heard himself cry, before he could stop himself and think about what he was saying. “I’m not _blind_!”

He froze. Somehow, saying those words aloud hit home. When they were unnamed thoughts running through his head, he could ignore them, refuse to acknowledge their meaning. But putting words to things, letting them out in the open, it made them real. And what had long been a niggling, neglected thought in his mind now had a name and could no longer be denied.

He, Bilbo Baggins, was attracted to Thorin Oakenshield.

Shit.

Bofur, it appeared, had a smirk that seemed to grow alongside Bilbo’s dawning realisation.

“I’m not surprised,” he chuckled. “He is quite the delicious piece of man meat.”

He snorted, but did not argue, rather he patted his friend’s hand fondly.

“Bofur, don’t ever stop being ridiculous.”

They spent the rest of the night talking, discussing first the exciting prospect of a Wardens of Rhûn film and then, when Bofur was relieved of his bar duty, the conversation derailed into the realm of cheerful idiocy, as most conversations, particularly those fueled by alcohol, did when they involved Bofur.

Whilst they were still at the bar, Dwalin came over for the next round of drinks, giving Bilbo a hearty pat on the shoulder. Bilbo tried not to wince. Much to his chagrin, the man still insisted on calling him ‘laddie’ and ignored Bilbo when he categorically stated that he was not, in fact, a child.

By the time he stumbled home, it was much too late and he was much too tipsy considering his journey to Little Bagshot the following day.

And so it was, as he boarded the train for Gloucester, he winced at the too-loud shouts of a young child and wanted nothing more than to be in his bed, avoiding the light.

He was much too old for this; he forgot that he could not recover from an unexpected night of drinking quite so well as he did in his twenties, or indeed could intake as large a volume.

He dozed for the duration of the journey, closing his eyes to the bright daylight and allowing his throbbing head to mourn the loss of its brain cells.

* * *

The welcoming sight of Bag-End was just as it always was.

His cousin Drogo picked him up at the station and Bilbo allowed him to recount all the Little Bagshot gossip from while he was away. He had not been since last Christmas, so there was a lot to catch up on; for a small village, life there was certainly never dull. Also, he felt rather uninclined to talk at that moment.

One of his distant cousins, Angelica Baggins had apparently gotten her nose done.

“Looks much too silly Bilbo, now her nose is too small for her face.”

His dear friend Hamfast and his wife Bell had just announced that they were to have a fifth child.

“Honestly, I don’t know how they do it. Reproduce faster than rabbits, do the Gamgees.”

Drogo’s sister Dora had taken up the position of Agony Aunt on the village newspaper.

“There’s no point, everyone knows everyone’s business anyway but that girl has opinions on everything and does not care whether you wish to hear them or not.”

Saradoc had finally plucked up the courage to ask Esmeralda on a date three weeks beforehand.

“It only took, what? Ten years since he realised he liked her?And that itself took ten years. Let’s hope if he proposes he’s somewhat more speedy about it.”

Gorbadoc had thrown another spectacular summer solstice party at Brandy Hall.

“Oh you should have seen the buffet Bilbo. And the dancing. I had the most terrible hangover the following day, even worse than yours is.”

Bilbo glared at him for that one.  There were just pulling up the drive to Bag-End as Drogo was finishing recounting the tale of how Lobelia had shamed herself in an attempted coup of the Women’s Institute. He realised he should probably not derive so much pleasure from her misfortune, but she was an unpleasant person.

His grin widened as he saw the familiar green front door, Primula waiting for them on the doorstep, waving with one hand, the other resting on her swollen stomach, a fresh glow to her pretty face.

He elbowed Drogo lightly, “You kept that quiet, you sly dog.”

His cousin beamed, his blue eyes fixed on his wife, “Four months gone. Sometime in January, so if you…?” He trailed off, not quite sure exactly how to ask what he wanted to.

“Of course I’ll come up for it.”

They shared a smile as they got out of the car, Bilbo rushing over to greet Primula whilst Drogo fetched his bag.

“My dear Bilbo!” she trapped him in a fierce hug, forcing all the air out of his lungs. “It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” he wheezed.

Releasing him, she didn’t look apologetic in the slightest and she bundled him inside with no regard for his delicate state.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she chastised when he dared complain. “We used to drink far more.”

Bilbo smiled at the memory of he and his friends as teenagers, sitting out on the Green Fields with alcohol stolen from their parents' liquor cabinets. That that was twenty years ago made him suddenly feel old.

“And bear it far better than we do in our old age,” Drogo commented from behind them. “Though we were much too ridiculous back then. All of us.”

Primula snorted.

“Remember that summer before you went off to uni? When Saradoc nearly punched you because he thought you liked Esmeralda?”

Bilbo chuckled, “Yes and he’d gotten quite the wrong end of the stick. I had quite the hopeless crush on _him_ back then.”

“The fact that you’d already come out at that point was irrelevant,” Drogo added dryly, then chuckled to himself. “Oh do you remember that?”

Bilbo and Primula laughed as well.

“No-one here’s going to forget that in a while. That was the nineties: no-one had come out by then and no-one did so quite so brazenly for a long time after.”

“Well they were harping on at me about you, Prim dear. Remember when everyone used to think you and I were destined to be?”

“And no-one believed us when we said we were just friends?”

“To be fair,” Drogo chimed, “Sara and Esme tried that one as well. And I remember being fully convinced you two were an item and being quite jealous of it.”

By now, they had gathered in the airy kitchen and Bilbo and Primula sat at the table while Drogo prepared a pot of tea. Primula smiled at her husband fondly and Bilbo ignored his own brief stab of jealousy; most of his school friends were settling down now and his hopes of doing so before forty were becoming ever more wistful.

“Lobelia was the one that provoked it, if I recall,” Bilbo said. “But then she provokes nearly everything.”

“She was trying to imply you should be ashamed of me!” Primula exclaimed, huffily. “But then you just stood up on your chair and were like ‘Class, I would like to make an announcement...’”

“‘...Primula is my dear friend,’” Bilbo carried on, the words returning to him easily. “‘But I must declare that she and I will never be, largely because she lacks something I desire in a partner…’”

“‘...That something being a penis,’” Drogo finished effortlessly and then they all descended into laughter.

Drogo brought the pot of herbal tea over and once it was served, the three passed the rest of the afternoon reminiscing on the antics of their younger days (and some of their more recent days when they were all gathered in Little Bagshot. There would be time for a proper reunion later in his stay, Primula said; there was due to be a big party for the August Bank Holiday on the village green as there was every year. It was always the highlight of his summers at Bag-End House, the loud festivities a contrast to his quiet times ensconced in his father’s old study, sometimes scrawling out pages upon pages of his stories and sometimes pacing as he worked through a plot point in his head.

It was in one such moment, about a week into his stay that Prim popped her head around the door, a smirk far too mischievous for his liking curling on her lips.

“There’s a man on the phone for you.”

Bilbo sighed, it as probably Bofur. He did not touch his phone during the days he spent writing and Nori knew not to contact him during those days anyway. Bofur was the only one who had the number, but it was supposed to be for emergencies.

He did not worry too much, every year Bofur rang, usually to ask something like ‘What’s a petunia again?’

He took the handset from his friend, sitting down on the small armchair next to the house phone.

“Hello?”

“Bilbo?”

The deep, rumbling voice was a shock to his ears - definitely not Bofur - and he frowned slightly in confusion.

“ _Thorin_? Why are you calling me?”

“You gave me this number before you left, remember? ‘For emergencies’ you said.”

His tone was dripping in amusement, so Bilbo decided not to worry or Thorin would otherwise have sounded a lot less collected.

“So I did.”

“Anyway,” Thorin continued, “I was actually ringing on behalf of my sister.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes, she wanted me to thank you for giving the boys the book. She said she’s never had the house so quiet during the summer break for a long while.”

Bilbo chuckled, “That I can imagine.”

“I would expect a phone call from them soon, when I spoke to Dís earlier today Fíli was apparently almost done with it.”

“Well I’ll look forward to that,” Bilbo said kindly. He poked his tongue out at Primula when she poked her head back into the room and gave him a salacious wink.

They exchanged idle chatter for a few moments more until Bilbo’s passing comment about his book made Thorin panic slightly.

“Oh I’m keeping you from your writing!”

“Not at all,” Bilbo said when he realised Thorin couldn’t see him shaking his head. “In fact Prim keeps lecturing me about being a hermit, spending all my time in the study.”

At the sound of Thorin’s deep chuckle, he could not help his own grin.

“Prim is your cousin’s wife, the one who’s your good friend?”

Bilbo smiled wider, he’d told Thorin about Prim and Drogo when he’d mentioned that he was coming away, but that he actually _remembered_ … Well Bilbo didn’t want to think on the implications of why that made him quite so happy.

“Prim was probably my closest friend growing up. Closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had.”

“In some ways, I’m lucky I have Dís, and then in many others I curse that we are related, usually when it involves scolding me.”

“She sounds like a wise woman.”

Thorin made a sound of protest but then began to talk a bit about his sister in a mix of compliments and insults, though each was suffused with an affection and warmth that made Bilbo smile, Bilbo himself chiming in with tidbits about himself and Primula. After a while, he decided once again that he was wasting Bilbo’s time and despite Bilbo’s protests to the contrary, their phone-call ended.

He drifted towards the study and paused in the doorway, then, deciding that he could finish for the day, promptly turned back around and headed for the kitchen.

Primula was there but said nothing, though her teasing grin warned that she would have something to say later.

* * *

Later came just after lunch the following day, whilst Drogo had gone out to clean their car, leaving Prim and Bilbo to clean the dishes.

“So,” she began, much too nonchalantly for Bilbo’s tastes, “Who was that gentleman who called?”

Bilbo turned his attention to scrubbing yesterday’s carbonara pan a little too intensely, hoping Primula wouldn’t notice his crimson cheeks. Fortunately, for there was no way she had not seen them, she chose not to comment (the teasing would probably come later, when she’d wheedled more information out of him).

“That was just Thorin,” he replied, attempting her casual tone. “My next door neighbour.”

He placed the clean pan in the dishrack and caught Prim looking at him amusedly, eyebrows raised.

“Isn’t he the oh-so frustrating one you dislike? Well you did when we last spoke, not even a month ago. You spent half our call ranting about his rudeness. ”

“It wasn’t _half_ our call,” he muttered under his breath. Louder, Bilbo said, “He is rather gruff on first acquaintance. And the second, and the third. Basically he’s just a very rude person, yes.”

“But?”

He did not like the way Prim was smirking at him, but there was no way around it, she would just bring it up at some other time.

“He can also be nice. And funny. And he has the most adorable nephews, though Fíli would protest if he ever heard me call him that.”

She was grinning now and elbowed him playfully. “You _like_ him.”

“No I do not!” he protested, much too quickly.

“Yes you do!” she prodded him in the chest accusingly, “You were beaming like an idiot when I poked my head in.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

Before turning back to her dishes, Prim fixed him with a knowing look that was entirely too reminiscent of his mother for comfort.

Neither of them said anymore as they put away all the pots and pans, the silence filled only by their light humming along to the cheerful pop playlist that had been put on. After a much too enthusiastic rendition of ‘Don’t You Want Me’ from his friend, he relaxed, only then realising he had been tense at all. Taking this as a sign the subject was dropped (well for now at least), he joined her in prancing around the kitchen to ‘Mamma Mia’, singing very loudly and probably very badly as they prepared the dinner they were having that evening. Acting like an idiot around Prim helped him forget that _Lobelia_ had invited herself around.

He did not understand what his cousin Otho saw in her. She had her moments, but most of the time she was overbearing and ostentatious.

Drogo came in after an hour or so and spent a good few moments laughing at their dance to ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’ before he too joined in, wiggling his hips as he prepared the filo pastry parcels.

They carried on much that way, laughing, singing and cooking until the clock struck six and Bilbo went off to change, leaving Prim and Drogo to set the table and then follow in his suit.

Not wanting to give Lobelia any room for criticism (even though she was bound to find it anyway), he tamed down his short hair that was just getting long enough to start to curl and chose a light blue shirt with dark grey trousers. Over the top he put his favourite velvet waistcoat, its colour a rich racing green. Stepping back, he admired his choice in the mirror before heading for the wine cellar to fetch the red Drogo had asked for.

The air was cool and still so he rested a moment, absorbing the quiet as a way to steel himself for the coming dinner. His cousin’s wife meant well, he knew this, but her manner of speaking was curt and unthinking, it rubbed him the wrong way and sparked his own temper. Though she _did_ have the unfortunate habit in disagreements of talking until the other party submitted rather than admit her own folly.

At dinner though, she and Primula both became involved in a lively debate on the interpretations of _Guernica_ and Bilbo, feeling rather ill-qualified to join in the discussion on art found himself sharing gardening woes with Drogo and Otho. The Sackville-Baggins had moved into the city of Gloucester itself eighteen months ago and his cousin was having trouble adapting to no longer living in the clean, fresh air of the country.

“I don’t know how you cope in London Bilbo,” Otho cried. “So grey and so many people!”

“I would imagine the greater variety of people in London would suit Bilbo better,” Lobelia commented; she and Prim had come to an agreement on several aspects of the painting and had therefore decided to join their conversation. Bilbo did not answer straight away, unsure as to her meaning and his pause gave Lobelia chance to continue talking, “How is your writing coming along? I understand you have a new one coming out before the year’s out?”

“Quite well,” he said pleasantly. “And yes the third book is out in October.”

“There’s to be four, right?” Otho asked.

Bilbo nodded. Sometimes he forgot that his pseudonym was an open secret in Little Bagshot; much to the bemusement of outsiders the small corner shop ran by Old Rory Brandybuck stocked several copies of the Wardens series, displayed proudly on the till next to the large tub of traffic-light lollipops.

“What are you going to do with yourself when you finish?”

He shrugged, “I hadn’t really considered it.”

If it paid off, he would hopefully be working on the films, but that wasn’t a sure thing. He could always write more, he supposed, there were normally a few ideas flitting about his head, though that had been before he had devoted his time to this one endeavour.

“Maybe you should find someone,” Lobelia’s voice cut across his thoughts, “You’re not getting any younger.”

“Perhaps,” Primula piped up, stopping Bilbo before he could work himself up into a rage, “But such a thing is not necessary to happiness.”

“But to live _alone_ ,” she sounded as if the idea personally offended her.

“I may be the only one in my flat, Lobelia,” he replied, doing his best to suppress the irritation fighting to enter his tone. “But I am friends with many people in the same building as me. In that sense, I am not alone.”

Lobelia huffed, but strangely did not pursue the topic any further; her marriage to Otho seemed to have mellowed he somewhat in recent years.

The rest of dinner passed without incident and soon Bilbo found himself in the warm embrace of his bed, his head in a light haze from the wine and he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

In the early days of the following week, he received an incensed phone-call.

“You killed Beren!” Kíli cried in lieu of a greeting.

“Hello Kíli,” he responded, a smile touching at his lips.

“And Fíli,” came the deeper voice of the elder brother. “And I can’t believe you did that either.”

“But he died protecting Lúthien, is that not noble?”

“Lúthien doesn’t need protecting, she’s actually stronger than him.”

Bilbo grinned, “Not always, and remember Beren is rarely logical when it comes to her.”

“Love is stupid,” Kíli huffed, “It makes people go all weird. I hope I never meet someone who makes me act that dumb.”

Fíli snorted, “Like you need any help.”

There was what sounded like a brief scuffle on the other end of the line, it stopped when Bilbo spoke again.

“So what did you guys think of Elladan and Elrohir?”

“They’re awesome!” Kíli enthused, “Though Fíli thinks Elladan is better just because he beat Eärendil but Elrohir is clearly better - he’s a Fire Warden!”

“Elrohir is the stronger and he does have the advantage over his brother,” Bilbo conceded, “But-” he added, speaking over Kíli’s crows of triumph “-Elladan is in far better control of his powers and employs greater tactical skills, something Eärendil needs - he is in Imladris for training after all.”

“That was what I was trying to say,” Fíli said proudly, “Elrohir is too reckless.”

“How is the new book coming along?” Kíli asked, clearly wanting to avoid the rest of his losing battle.

“I’m almost halfway through already, I think, probably more like a third.”

“It must be quite strange, having the end of all this in sight,” Fíli mused.

Bilbo laughed lightly, “Yes, it’s been such a big part of my life these past ten years at least.”

“Are you going to write more though?”

“Of course Kíli,” he said. “And if I see you boys soon, I may let you read the rough draft of the first chapter. I say rough because I have terrible handwriting.”

Kíli let out a sound something akin to a squeal.

“That’d be pretty cool,” Fíli replied, his excitement thinly veiled by his nonchalant tone.

He was fairly certain he shouldn’t have developed such a soft spot for Thorin’s nephews already, but they were quite charming and he found he couldn’t suppress his warm fondness for them, even if he’d wished to.

* * *

A pleasant breeze danced through the air of the warm August evening. Almost everyone in Little Bagshot had already gathered upon the green, half in the shade of the large oak affectionately called the Party Tree. The hum of conversation was occasionally drowned out by general shouts of merriment. Leaning back on his deckchair, Bilbo was content just to savour the moment as their friends carried on a conversation around him.

It was the Sunday of the Bank Holiday weekend and with him heading back home to London on Tuesday, he intended to enjoy the evening to its fullest. His time at Bag-End had been productive and he always loved time spent with Prim and Drogo, but he had been gone about a month and at odd moments he found himself missing the constant noise of the capital. Much as he dreaded the notion when he moved there, London had become his home now as well and he did miss it when he was gone.

It was an odd notion, he supposed, having two homes at once.

“We have an announcement,” Esmeralda stated after a lull in the conversation. Bilbo lazily opened one eye to where she and Saradoc were sat on a picnic blanket, hands clasped and looking almost nervously at Prim, Drogo and himself. It was just the five of them there that night (their other friend from their group growing up, Tolman, was away visiting his mother in Sweden with his girlfriend Lily), and they had arranged themselves almost into a circle, around a cooler filled with drinks, just out of the shadow of the huge tree.

Esme and Sara exchanged a brief look with one another before she extended her left hand.

Upon it was an elegant diamond ring.

Prim let out a strange garbled noise.

Drogo squealed.

Bilbo felt himself laugh, “And we were worried you’d take another ten years.”

Sara shrugged and ran a hand through his messy auburn hair, “I figured I already wasted enough time. And really, was I ever going to marry anyone other than Esme?”

“I wouldn’t have let you,” his fiancee muttered.

“Well we’re all very happy for you both,” Drogo offered sincerely.

And as he watched his two friends so blissful in having finally found one another, he couldn’t help but feel a small pang of loneliness that he quickly quashed in favour of happier thoughts.

His life was fulfilling and his friends were all truly blessed. It would not do to be petty, even if he had given up on finding someone before his fortieth.

Glancing around, he regarded them all warmly; he loved them dearly and to see them happy, that was enough for him.

But if that night, as he lay back in his empty bed, his dreams were filled with deep, melodious words, hope, and images of the bluest of eyes, well, he chose not to dwell on it, or consider it just yet.

The hope, however, lingered far beyond him stepping through the glass doors or Arda Court and seeing that impossible blue once more.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin ignored the niggling thought in the back of his mind telling him he was in an awful lot of trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I've just got back from watching my first Superbowl (we left early because my friend was a bit tipsy) and it was rather fun!  
> Thank you once again to everyone who has bookmarked/kudos'd/reviewed so far, you're all the best!  
> The song Thorin and co sing at the beginning of this chapter is Loch Lomond, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJ7f0HUk8OU/) is the Runrig version of it  
> Next chapter should be out on Wednesday or Thursday. As always, updates can be found on my [Tumblr](http://theindianwinter.tumblr.com/)  
> Hope you enjoy it! Do let me know what you think.

It wasn’t that he had _missed_ Bilbo, but that he had not realised how accustomed he had grown to their chats outside on their balconies in a few short weeks until he found himself noticing their absence whilst Bilbo was away.

The month of August seemed to fly by, though each individual week passed at but a crawl.

Late summer had enveloped London in a thick, oppressive heat, broken occasionally by a rain shower that did nothing to ease the muggy air and Thorin wanted nothing more than to lie down in the shade of a tree in the park or take a dip at the local swimming baths.

Instead, he had work, and as much as he generally enjoyed his job, he found passing his days in the stuffy lab rather unbearable. On Saturdays, and the odd evening through the week, he would join Dwalin in the beer garden of the Green Dragon for a pint or two (or ten, on one occasion he regretted heavily the Sunday morning) and they were sometimes joined by Glóin, though his banking job often kept him busy.

It was a happy routine of sorts, and he found himself saddened at the thought it may be lost with the turning of the leaves and the nights drawing in.

The Tuesday after the August Bank Holiday he had booked as a holiday in anticipation of the inevitable hangover. Dwalin had insisted they reinstate their three day pub crawl that had been a tradition of theirs since their university years. Thorin did not realise how much he had missed those long weekends (he usually remembered very little of ) in the three years since his best friend had moved down to London until he was stumbling down the Embankment at four in the morning with Dwalin and Glóin, all three belting out ‘Loch Lomond’ at the top of their voices.

He did not know what time he awoke on Tuesday, but the sun was unnaturally bright and the three of them were collapsed in an awkward pile on Thorin’s bed.

Cheese and bacon, it was decided, was needed urgently.

Unfortunately, Thorin had neither in his fridge at that moment.

Grumbling to himself at how he had to play the errand boy in his own home, he trudged out of the lift, only to lock eyes with Bilbo from across the lobby.

Unwittingly, his lips twitched into a small smile, “You’re back.”

“That I am,” he said as he lugged his two suitcases towards the lift. He stopped and snorted when he got closer, regarding Thorin amusedly. “My, my, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“Bank Holiday tradition,” Thorin groaned, “I hack it with a lot less grace than I did as a student.”

“Don’t we all?” Bilbo chuckled.

Deciding his friends could wait, he reached for the handle of the larger suitcase, “Here, let me help you.”

Bilbo protested, but relinquished the smaller to him and continued on towards the lift, Thorin falling into step beside him.

“So how was home?”

“Bag-End was same as ever,” Bilbo replied fondly. “Prim and Drogo are expecting,” he was brimming with barely contained excitement, “And my old friends Saradoc and Esmeralda have finally, _finally_ , gotten engaged.”

“That long coming?” he asked, vaguely recollecting the other man mentioning his old friends.

“Well they’ve only been a couple for three weeks-” Thorin felt his eyebrows soar in disbelief. _Three weeks?_ “-but before that there was ten years of both of them dancing round one another and pining - oh Lord, the _pining_ \- and before _that_ was ten years of them being oblivious idiots,” his sighed with tender exasperation, “They are simply hopeless.”

By now, they had reached Bilbo’s front door and the sound of their voices had drawn out the pale heads of Dwalin and Glóin.

The red-haired man narrowed his eyes at his friend accusingly, “You’re supposed t’ be getting us cheese and bacon.”

“Sorry, he was helping me,” Bilbo uttered before Thorin could respond. “Allow me to make it up to you - I’ll make you toasties.”

The pair fixed him with beatific smiles.

“You are a wonderful human being.”

Bilbo smirked at the praise, “Thorin go get the ingredients. Boys I’ll be through in a moment with my toastie maker.”

He shooed at Thorin when he did not move, “Go, go, I need bacon, bread and butter if you do not have them and a ridiculous amount of cheese.”

He dragged himself back to the lift, ignoring Dwalin’s entertained glance as he passed.

Soon enough for found himself digging into an absolutely delicious toasted sandwich, filled with, as Bilbo had promised, ‘an indecent amount of cheese’ and paying little heed to the groans he was emitting. Dwalin and Glóin were in much the same state and Bilbo was watching them all, amusement and satisfaction dancing his his eyes as he prepared his own sandwich.

As his back was turned, Glóin leaned over a mumbled to him.

“Never let this one go.”

He grunted, at that moment finding himself rather disinclined to argue that he had no claim over his kindly neighbour in the first place, rather he watched Bilbo as he ate, the man’s dark blond head bobbing to some inaudible tune, completely unaware of the exchange taking place behind him.

* * *

Taking full advantage of the slightly cooler day, Thorin chose to eat his breakfast out on the balcony. The day before’s spectacular thunderstorm had broken through the heat and now the air was lighter and far more pleasant. As he bit into his buttery slice of toast, he mused that really, the morning was quite perfect.

Well it would be, if not for that fucking pigeon.

He glared at it, “Don’t you have a statue to go shit on?”

He was actually talking to a bird, wasn’t he? He was almost as bad as Bilbo.

As if summoned by Thorin’s thoughts, the man himself appeared, brandishing a mop and a terrific scowl.

“It is too early for your shit Smaug!” he cried, swiping at the bird with the mop. The bird simply fluttered out of harm’s way and landed further along, cooing obnoxiously the whole time.

Bilbo let out a frustrated sound akin to a suppressed scream that made Thorin chuckle.

He whipped around and smiled when he saw Thorin.

It was exactly that moment when Thorin realised his neighbour was shirtless, clad only in his tartan pyjama bottoms that were slung awfully low on his hips.

He knew he was staring, and he knew he was probably being very obvious, but he was once again hit full force with just how strongly attracted to Bilbo Baggins he was.

When his gaze landed upon Bilbo’s face he was both blushing and smirking; a confusing but endearing mix of embarrassed and teasing.

After a few beats of silence, the smirk turned self-deprecating and Bilbo prodded at his stomach.

“I should probably eat less cake.”

“No!” The word was ripped from him before he could do anything about it. Bilbo was looking at him, taken aback and Thorin knew he was positively beetroot. “Erm...that is to say,” he sighed, closing his eyes and willing his blush away, “You… you look fine. Truly.”

His neighbour smiled then, a small genuine one that sent a jolt through his stomach.

“Thank you,” he said gently.

Smaug’s insufferable calls cut through the silence that rested between them and Bilbo rounded on the pigeon, brandishing the mop in what Thorin guessed was supposed to be an intimidating manner.

He snickered at the man’s behaviour and returned indoors.

He ignored the niggling thought in the back of his mind telling him he was in an awful lot of trouble.

* * *

There was a knock on his door. Thorin frowned down at the page in his book. When the second came, he stood, heaving a sigh as he did so.

It was Bofur.

His frown deepened, “Can I help you?”

“It’s about Bilbo,” Bofur replied. His eyes always had this twinkle in them, as if he knew something no-one else did and found it incredibly amusing. It was a little unsettling. His dark eyes pointedly slid from Thorin’s face, over his shoulder into his flat.

Not bothering to withhold his sigh, Thorin stepped aside, granting the Irishman entry.

Only once the door was shut did Bofur speak.

“Has Bilbo mentioned his birthday to you at all?”

“Only in passing. It’s later this month, correct?”

“The 22nd. Anyway, since you and he have become _friendly_ as of late-” Thorin did not appreciate the innuendo laden in Bofur’s tone - there was nothing going on between him and Bilbo, _really_. “-I was wondering if you’d like to help?”

Thorin was starting to feel as if he’d missed something.

“With what?”

Bofur gave a huff of exasperation that evoked an image of Bilbo when he encountered someone particularly obtuse (that someone quite often being Thorin).

“Why his surprise party of course!”

Surprised, he stilled for a moment, touched, but not wishing to show it, that Bilbo’s closest friend had asked him to help with this.

Nodding, he said curtly, “I’ll help.”

“Excellent,” Bofur grinned. Then his eyes caught the paperback Thorin had left carelessly on his glass coffee table and pinned him with a dangerous, knowing look.

“So you’re reading Bilbo’s book?”

He shrugged, turning sharply to the kitchen to hide his light flush and set about filling up the kettle to prepare some tea.

“What is it you’d like me to do?”

“Well, you have Friday afternoons off, right?”

With a suspicious glance, Thorin asked, “How do you know that?”

Wafting his hand dismissively, Bofur breezed, “Oh Bilbo told me.”

His stomach clenching, he turned sharply from the mug cupboard, almost smacking his head on the door in the process, “Bilbo talks about me?”

There was that discerning look again, but otherwise Bofur paid his comment no heed, “So I was going to ask if you could meet some of Bilbo’s friends from home at the station?”

Not wanting to admit how he had almost failed in that task when it involved his own nephews, he agreed.

“Great, so Nori is calling Bilbo in for a meeting on the Friday afternoon, so if you can keep them entertained here until I get back from work, that would be great.”

“They can stay here if they…” he trailed off as the other man started to shake his head.

“No, you live next door, he may hear you. No there’s six of them, so two are going to stay with Gandalf and the other four with me - I have a sofa bed you see, for when my brother and his brood come over from Ireland. All you need to do is see them here from Paddington.”

Easier said than done.

That was a different station, he vaguely recollected it being somewhere in West London.

As long as he made it there alright, he shouldn’t have too many problems getting back.

“And I’m guessing you’ll want help with setting up on Saturday too?”

“Perfect, it’s going to be in the big room downstairs. The nice one, not that awful dark one Thranduil keeps trying to commandeer as a wine cellar.”

Thorin repressed a shudder at the thought of the pretentious twat up on the fifth floor. He had only encountered him once. It had not ended well. Thorin may have said some things along the lines of the man’s (very impressive) eyebrows being more generous in size than certain...appendages.

To be fair the man had tried to make some disparaging remark about both Thorin’s then long hair and his Scottish heritage, the snooty git.

Noting Thorin’s obvious distaste, Bofur grinned again, though this time there was no teasing in his dark eyes, “So you’ve crossed with Mr High-and-Mighty-with-a-stick-up-his-arse then?”

Thorin snorted, “I’ve had the displeasure.”

“I think I heard about that, didn’t you tell him where to stick his precious walking cane?”

Thorin nodded proudly, setting the two mugs of tea down on the table. He sat down opposite Bofur as the other man wondered just why Thranduil had need of a walking cane, well other than for looking like ‘even more of a dick than he already does’.

Quite happily, he spent the next half hour mainly listening as Bofur dished out all the salacious details of Arda Court’s inhabitants, most of whom Thorin only knew well enough to put a name to a face. It turned out the entire fifth floor were, as Bofur so quaintly put it, a ‘bunch of complete and utter twats’.

At about four o’clock, Bofur excused himself as he was working down at the Green Dragon that evening, but left with a promise to get in touch soon with the finite details for meeting Bilbo’s friends.

Once he was gone, Thorin sighed at the restored peace and returned to his book.

He was rather enjoying it.

* * *

“Are we lost?” a voice to his left said dryly.

Thorin turned and glared at the smaller blond man - Saradoc (‘call me Sara’), if he remembered rightly - who had fallen into step beside him.

“No,” he ground out stubbornly.

There were lost, but he wasn’t going to admit that here, not to Bilbo’s friends.

“Oh? It’s just we just passed a sign that seems to be pointing us back _towards_ Paddington.”

Fortunately, the man didn’t sound too mocking, largely concerned and confused.

London was huge; he considered it perfectly acceptable that he still did not know his way around after living there for four months.

“Are you _sure_ you know where we’re going?” Sara’s fiancee, Esmeralda, asked in a similar concerned tone, though hers held a more obvious undercurrent of amusement.

He frowned down at the screen of his phone were the blue line and arrow on Google Maps scornfully told him, that _yes_ , he had absolutely no fucking clue what he was supposed to be doing.

“We may be somewhat...geographically misplaced, but I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

He kept his eyebrows pulled together sternly in a feeble attempt to counteract the heat he could feel flaring up on his cheeks - that was happening an awful lot to him lately, the flushes, perhaps he should do see the doctor.

There were all regarding him with varying looks of incredulity.

“I thought you said you knew how to get back?” Tolman raised a dark brow.

He held up his hand so they could see where he had once again meticulously scrawled the directions for taking the Tube, “I did, but _some people_ -” he glared at each of them in turn, “-insisted on walking, because the day was ‘just _so_ lovely,’” the last bit was said in a mocking higher toned voice.

Esme narrowed her eyes at the phone in his hand, “Wait you’re lost even with Google Maps?”

“The app lies!” he cried out frustratedly.

Lily, Tolman’s girlfriend, snatched the phone from his hand, taking an about turn and beginning to stalk off, all with only a muttered, “Leave it to me.”

Now without the responsibility of leading, he found it much easier to have a polite conversation with Bilbo’s old friends.

Esme, it turned out, was a GP, and so she soon settled in talking to him about his work in pharmaceutical research whilst her fiance engaged his old friend in a conversation about the rugby or cricket - it was some sport Thorin had no great interest in, though that was not really saying much, as he had no great interest in sport in general.

She was rather pleasant company and the walk flew by and before he knew it, he was stood before Arda Court. A very smug looking Lily handed his phone back to him and he glared back, then glanced at the time.

“Bofur will be back soon,” he noted.

“Well wasn’t that just a perfectly planned diversion to pass the time?” Tolman commented sarcastically.

Leading them through the lobby, Thorin sent a message to Bofur letting him know they had arrived back (and made it sound as if they had been there for some time and he had only just remembered to message).

“You know what?” Sara commented, “I’m just gasping for a cup of tea.”

* * *

It fell to Bilbo’s friend Ori to keep him occupied and out of Arda for the duration of Saturday. Thorin was helping with setting up in the afternoon and so spent his morning in a leisurely fashion, lounging about in his pyjamas.

Therefore it was a complete surprise to him when he was descended upon by Bilbo’s cousin and his pregnant wife.

Drogo had been unable to take the Friday off work and so they had had to come down on the Saturday morning and would spend it with the others, or so he’d been told.

He had just finished breakfast when there was a knock on the door. He blinked, still slightly bleary-eyed from sleep, at the two people on the threshold.

“Thorin Oakenshield?” the woman asked. She was small and had bright hazel eyes. He had no time to process much more as, at his nod, she made a strange noise and enveloped him in a bracing hug.

The man offered him a sympathetic look.

“Prim,” he said, “Don’t you think you should introduce yourself before you tackle the man?”

So this was Prim and Drogo, now that he thought about it he could see Bilbo in the set of his cousin’s jaw and the light, greyish-blue of his eyes.

Primula let go and stepped back to offer him her hand, “Primula Baggins, it’s a pleasure.”

Giving her a small, genuine smile, for it was very difficult to dislike Primula already, despite her forward nature, Thorin took her hand, “The pleasure’s all mine.”

Her husband gave a short, firm handshake and simply stated, “Drogo.”

They already knew his name, so he simply nodded to Drogo and let them both in.

“Bilbo’s told me all about you both,” he offered conversationally, leading the pair into the kitchen and putting the kettle on automatically. If Primula and Drogo were anything like Bilbo, they would want tea - on the few occasions they had taken tea in each other’s flat, Bilbo always prepared himself a large mug of tea, even in Thorin’s flat, where he set about as if he owned the place, ignoring the occupant’s protests.

“He mentioned you too,” Drogo replied. He said nothing further when Thorin glanced at him and instead moved to Thorin’s side and pointed to the red berry tea Fíli liked so much, indicating that that was for Prim, who was understandably avoiding caffeine.

Clearing his throat, he moved his gaze over the couple, “I wish to offer my congratulations on the baby,” he said, hating how formal he sounded. “Bilbo is rather excited about it, or at least, I think he is - whenever he talks about it, he descends into incomprehensible babbling.”

Drogo beamed proudly as he thanked him, but Primula was giving Thorin an appraising look he did not know how to interpret.

Only once Drogo’s tea had steeped enough, and he was setting the three mugs on the table, did she speak.

“I’m curious,” she began, “As to the sudden change in the relationship between Bilbo and yourself - one minute he’s ranting about his incredibly rude neighbour and the next you’re calling him up out of the blue - as are your nephews - and helping set up his birthday party.”

Thorin knew he was probably caught with an uncharacteristic deer-in-the-headlights expression upon his face, not helped by the pitying look Drogo was giving him alongside his wife’s hard stare.

“I’m sorry to say I was not enjoying my first month or so here in London and when I am feeling particularly grumpy I’m ruder than I am normally,” he was wincing as he admitted this, not one to acknowledge his own faults out loud, though his mind more than made up for that, “And I have never been one to be polite without absolutely _having_ to be.”

Primula was still looking at him expectantly, but her gaze had soften somewhat. Realising then that the stern look had been a mechanism to get him to talk, he mentally slapped himself - it was one of his sister’s favourite tactics after all.

“Your nephews enjoy his books, don’t they?”

Thorin almost hugged Drogo for the diversion, certain that if Primula carried on quizzing him about Bilbo much longer they would pick up on how captivated he was by their old friend.

And then he sat and talked about his nephews for a while, listened as Prim and Drogo talked about their own families and found himself incredibly relieved that the dangerous subject of his relationship - no, _friendship_ \- with Bilbo was not brought up again.

* * *

The afternoon passed in a blur of moving tables, setting out buffet food and blowing up balloons and Thorin discovered he rather enjoyed himself in the company of Bilbo’s other friends. Bofur and Esme found out they both had the same wicked sense of humour and took great pleasure in entertaining the others with their sharp witty commentary of anything and everything.

Much to the glee of the others, Thorin found himself roped into Bofur’s mocking impression of the residents of the fifth floor - strutting about with his nose in the air and a rogue block of wood as a walking cane, sipping his Ribena with an exaggerated air of superiority and making ridiculous comments about its bouquet.

Soon enough, he was stood in the dark, listening to Bilbo’s confused mutterings as Ori led him down the staircase. As the lights turned on Bilbo gasped, eyes glistening in delight then he launched himself at Bofur to hug his friend, babbling his gratitude. Bofur whispered something and before Thorin knew it, the air whooshed out of him as he was engulfed in a tight embrace. He returned it gently, then muttered in Bilbo’s ear, “You might want to see who else is here.”

His friend pulled back in confusion and he jerked his head towards where Bilbo’s six friends from Little Bagshot stood, smile widening as Bilbo dashed towards them, all seven making incomprehensible noises of excitement.

Sharing a satisfied nod with Bofur, he set off for the buffet table. Once he had filled up his plate, he turned to face the room; Bilbo seemed to have got through greeting most of his guests, the room was now filled with the hum of various conversations. Bypassing Dwalin, who was engaged in a flirtatious back-and-forth with Bilbo’s publisher, Nori, he joined Drogo and Ori as they discussed a new drama on the Spanish Armada and its historical accuracy. Thorin, who had only had chance to watch the first episode so far gave a few small contributions but was otherwise content to listen to the other two; Ori in particular had some rather intriguing insights. Once his plate was empty, he excused himself to go get a drink.

Bilbo was engaged in a lively conversation with Sara and Esme as Thorin passed by on his way back that he was unwillingly dragged into by a smirking Esme to defend himself against their unfavourable descriptions of the previous day’s journey from Paddington to Arda.

Patting his forearm consolingly, Bilbo leaned towards the others, a conspiratory grin upon his face, “Thorin is terrible with getting lost.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again when the others looked at him with eyebrows raised in amusement that he would even try and refute such a plain truth.

“One time, Dwalin told me, after a night out, Thorin got lost trying to find his own flat.”

He was going to be having words with Dwalin.

Since it had happened whilst he was in Gloucestershire, Thorin had been hoping Bilbo would never find out about Gandalf discovering him one Sunday morning, curled behind a plant-plot on the second floor landing.

Esme snorted, “It’s not as bad as the time you two couldn’t find the door to get back in when we had that massive party in the Borough and we found you the following morning passed out in the garden, _spooning_.”

Esme then took great delight in recounting the misadventures of their group of friends in their twenties, especially at the many parties held at her family home Tuckborough - or ‘the Borough’ as it was known locally - whilst her parents were away on holiday.

Throughout the entire conversation, Bilbo and Saradoc had been steadily avoiding one another’s gaze and shifting uncomfortably. Esme, picking up on this, snorted, cutting off her description of Drogo’s drunk dancing to ask, “What’s got into you two?”

When neither offered a response, both looking shiftily at the floor, she cried out in a mix of delight and disbelief.

“ _No!_ ” Then quieter, she added, “You didn’t?!”

At Saradoc’s feeble nod she descended into giggles. Looking between the three of them, Thorin soon caught on. Ah.

“We were drunk!” Sara protested loudly, “But there was no touching of _parts_!”

This of course, drew the attention of most people in the vicinity, especially Tolman and Prim who were talking with Bofur. Bilbo suddenly looked very interested in what was left of his drink of beer. Esme skipped over to their friends, a mischievous grin on her face, no doubt intending to recount their conversation, and Sara hurried after her, probably to attempt damage control.

There was something slightly despondent in Bilbo’s eyes and at that point, Thorin recalled a throwaway comment the other had made of his hopeless crush on Saradoc.

Leaning in, Thorin supplied a quiet, “Did I ever tell you about my own tragic infatuation with a friend?”

Bilbo’s mouth was still hidden behind his plastic cup, but his gaze cleared and turned interested.

“Glóin.”

Spitting out his mouthful of beer back into his cup, Bilbo turned to him wide eyed.

“ _Glóin_?!” he spluttered, “As in family-man banker Glóin?”

“The very same,” he nodded. “He was quite the looker back then.”

Bilbo was grinning at him in amusement and the room suddenly became much too warm. Excusing himself to go get some air, he hastened towards the staircase, ignoring Dwalin’s wink as he passed his friend and his path up through the lobby to Arda Court’s small court yard was much too long. He took a deep breath, trying to push away the bright face that clung to the forefront of his mind.

Oh boy, was he in so much trouble.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin just smiled that half-smile of his, completely unaware of the turmoil he was causing in Bilbo’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day later than intended - I completely forgot I had a Czech test today that I needed to revise for.  
> Thank you once again to all you lovely people who commented/kudos'd!  
> I also drew some art for this because I was suffering from writer's block - [here](http://theindianwinter.tumblr.com/post/110018090612/i-had-writers-block-so-i-drew-bilbo-and-thorin/).
> 
> Quick note for this chapter: A ceilidh is a traditional form of Scottish country dancing and most children will learn the various dances whilst at school.

Bilbo sighed as he watched the broad back disappear through the door and out of the noisy basement room. Sighing, he tried to ignore the words of their conversation milling through his mind alongside the taunting thoughts about his current hopeless attachment.

He paid no heed to the optimistic voice in the back of his mind that tried to tell him that maybe this time it wasn’t quite so helpless, drowning it out with a long gulp of his drink.

Catching Bofur’s eye, he saw his friend raising a concerned eyebrow at him from over Esme’s shoulder. With another sigh, he moved over to join them, just as Esme finished recounting her new discovery of his and Sara’s brief drunken tryst some fifteen years earlier, the one he and Sara had promised never to talk about. Bilbo had liked it when it had been a secret, a small slice of light in his foolish, unrequited love for his old friend that had hung over his late teens and early twenties. It was a stolen moment he only vaguely remembered, but it was one where Sara was _his_ for once and not Esme’s as he always was, as he always would be.

He had been in love twice since then; one was a short-lived affair with a charming accountant just after he had moved to London - back then he had been working in a coffee shop alongside writing and the man had stumbled in to escape the rain - and they had fallen out of love as suddenly and painfully as they fell into it. The second was about a year later, when he was filled with the anxiety of his looming thirtieth birthday (his worries about turning thirty seemed so unfounded now that he had his fortieth on the horizon), one night he met a dashing young Spanish diplomat and all too soon, three years had passed and his work pulled him away to Mexico. It was not long after that, that they amicably agreed to walk away.

“Of course he’s going, aren’t you Bilbo?” Bofur’s voice tore through his thoughts and, finding himself ever grateful for his friend’s ability to pull him out before he set into a funk, he flashed a smile as he returned his attention to the conversation.

“Sorry? I was away with the fairies there.”

Prim was giving him a skeptical look, but said nothing either, and Drogo was the one to speak.

“We were just talking about Christmas plans and said you should join us again.”

“You mean as I’ve done the past eight years?” Bilbo asked, wondering why such a thing yet wasn’t just accepted as a fact. “Of course.”

Excusing himself, he moved over to the drink table for a refill and soon found himself drawn into a conversation on poetry with Elrond from the fifth floor. The rest of his evening was far too busy for him to dwell on his earlier thoughts any longer as he was pulled from conversation to conversation with all of his friends.

When he sank into his bed that evening, it was with a sated smile on his face and a happy sigh that he drifted peacefully into slumber.

* * *

The last week of September drifted into October without Bilbo really noticing it and with it came rainier and colder weather that drove his and Thorin’s daily conversations to being indoors over a cup of tea. His book release crept ever closer and with it his publicity tour. Both passed him by in a whirlwind of smiling fans and bland hotel rooms before he even had chance to process their arrival.

It was a still day late in the month when he returned to London and collapsed in his armchair with a cup of tea and a book without even bothering to move his suitcase from the hallway, never mind unpack it. At some point, he must have drifted to sleep because it was dark when he woke, his book lying open on his chest, and the sounds of childish laughter coming through the wall. In the chaos of his tour, he’d forgotten Thorin’s nephews would be here when he returned, staying with their uncle for the half-term break. Brushing out the wrinkles that had formed in his chinos, he put his door on the catch and knocked on the door of Thorin’s flat.

There was a brief pause of silence before the door opened to Thorin, whose face instantly split into a grin.

“Bilbo! You’re back.”

Before he could reply, Bilbo was cut off by excited shouts. Kíli bounded under his uncle’s arm to greet him, enclosing him in a fierce hug, followed by Fíli who moved at a more sedate pace and seemed less intent on squeezing _all_ the air from his lungs.

Thorin chuckled and Bilbo let out a few breathless laughs of his own.

“Boys, you should probably let Bilbo breath now.”

Reluctantly, the pair let go, but Kíli dragged Bilbo in by his wrist, chattering happily about how he had just progressed to yellow belt in ju-jitsu whilst his elder brother set about preparing some tea.

In his head, Bilbo started to fret at how at home he felt here, in Thorin’s kitchen, listening to his nephews talk to him as if he were their own uncle and not the next door neighbour that had dropped into their lives when they went to the book-signing not even four months previous.

Mostly, he worried at how _good_ it felt, to be sat there, feeling the soft heat radiating from Thorin in the seat next to him. And, as much as he was loathe to admit it, even to himself, he knew he liked the man far more than was healthy for his own sanity, given their blossoming friendship.

As he sat there, recounting his hectic fortnight over a cup of tea, he took in the faces of Fíli, Kíli and Thorin and realised that though all this was barely his, if indeed it could be called his, he would miss it incredibly if he were to lose it. He knew there was something between him and his neighbour, but he feared taking that leap, he feared launching himself into the unknown and risking what they already had, because what they had was, by itself, kind of wonderful, and he was truly happy. Glancing at Thorin’s profile, he wondered if perhaps it was worth risk of it all going up in flames; beautiful, terrible flames. No, he knew it was worth the risk, but he was as much his father’s child as he was his mother’s, a creature of habit and comfort, much too scared of gambling his happiness on a maybe.

Kíli was detailing how many of his friends had been green with envy at the boy’s friendship with Bilbo - “Because even though you’re old, you’re my friend.” (Bilbo had tried to only be flattered by that, but he was rather put out at being called ‘old’, even by a twelve year old) - and how his mother was unreasonable because she wouldn’t let Kíli bring his friends down to his uncle’s for half-term so they could meet Bilbo too.

“You know,” Bilbo mused, “Your mother’s right, it would be much too difficult to bring so many of you to London.”

He raised his finger to cut of the boy’s protest, an idea already formed in his mind.

“Instead, it would be much easier if I were to come to you.”

At that, Kíli, for once, seemed to have nothing to say and was staring at Bilbo, eyes and mouth open in wide.

“That would be pretty cool,” Fíli supplied. “You could meet Mum then; she really wants to meet you after all Uncle Thorin has said to her.”

Glancing sharply to his left, Bilbo was unable to meet Thorin’s eye as the man suddenly found his coffee to be of great interest.

Once he had finished his tea, he excused himself and went to ring Nori.

Nori was unopposed to the idea and Bilbo could practically _feel_ his smirk on the other end of the line.

Later, he returned to Thorin’s with a smile and a promise to the boys that he would be up at the end of November to do a reading at their school.

Their enthusiasm was palpable and Bilbo soon found himself drawn into their babbling as they listed all the things he would absolutely _have_ to see when he came up.

“Will you come too?” Fíli asked of his uncle who was watching the whole scene from across the room.

His lips stretched into a fond smile that made Bilbo’s stomach clench at its understated brilliance.

“Of course.”

Oh this was definitely not going to fare well for his state of mind.

* * *

Before Bilbo had any chance to see them again, the boys were back off to Glasgow and quiet was restored to their third floor corridor once more. Though he did not wish to say he was avoiding Thorin intentionally, over the next two weeks he saw little of his neighbour; he busied himself with his writing, rarely venturing out onto his balcony, telling himself it was the unpleasant November weather that kept him away.

He did not see much of Bofur as his friend was working full-time at his cousin’s toyshop in the hectic run-up to Christmas. Last he had seen his friend, on Saturday, they parted in frustration as Bofur brought up the topic of No.23’s handsome resident in jest and Bilbo, who had spent the previous evening wallowing in his fears after an afternoon of chatting about everything and nothing out on the balcony, did not take to the subject kindly.

“It never does one good to give in to these things,” he defended his inaction huffily.

“Nor does it do you good to ignore how you feel,” Bofur replied, a rare frown tugging at his brow.

“It’ll pass soon enough.”

Bofur growled something under his breath, but let it go, though there was an uneasiness that threaded through the rest of their conversation and when they parted, it was in an air of tenseness.

Bilbo grew ever restless in the week that followed. He was stuck on a difficult part in his book so his mind easily grew distracted. He hated how frequently it wandered to Thorin. He found himself taking several brisk walks in the cold in an attempt to clear his mind but they failed, as did the crafting of a cheesecake. Hoping tales of adventures may dispel his thoughts, even for a brief while, he took the cheesecake upstairs to call on Gandalf for tea.

Normally, their meetings would take place in Bilbo’s flat, but Bilbo needed to escape and it was only when he crossed the threshold into Gandalf’s own flat that he remembered why that was the case.

Quite frankly, Gandalf’s flat was an utter pig-sty.

There was stuff _everywhere_.

Huge stacks of books sprung up from random places in the dark carpet, presumably the source of the musty air that permeated the cluttered flat. A chair was barely discernible beneath the heap of coats to Bilbo’s immediate left, and was that... _yes_ , there was a _sword_ mounted on the wall to his right, though Bilbo hadn’t the foggiest what the ‘ _Glamdring_ ’ on the plaque below it meant.

“Bilbo?” the older man called, poking his head around the door to the kitchen. Blinking, for he had not realised he was just standing and staring at all stuff, he moved towards the kitchen, but paused briefly to frown at what looked to be a stuffed eagle, hidden behind a glass case that glinted in the light from the window.

When it came to Gandalf, he often found it was safer not to ask.

He regaled his tales of his book signing, finding himself mildly surprised as he did so that it had really been well over a month since he had last spoken to his old friend. Gandalf replied in between mouthfuls of cheesecake - the sight of the usually distinguished man with his cheeks puffed out, filled with food, much like a rodent was highly comical - with his usual biting quips and tales of his own exploits in previous weeks. Bilbo found Gandalf always had tales of exploits - he was incapable of sitting idly by and Bilbo often wondered why the man had ever bothered to retire at all.

“So I was quite happy wondering about the House of Commons by myself,” Gandalf said, pausing to take in a forkful from his third slice of cheesecake.

“As you do,” Bilbo commented dryly. That was the other thing with Gandalf, the man seemed to have connections _everywhere_ , but it was the kind of thing one only noticed after a long time, when all the throwaway lines like ‘when I was a guest of the Prince of Monaco’ ( _seriously_ ) could be added together to form a picture that Bilbo still found to be utterly nonsensical beyond the sense that Gandalf had lived a Very Interesting Life; the kind of life so far from the realms of mediocrity in which most people dwelled that it deserved, nay _required_ capitalisation, in Bilbo’s mind at least.

“And there was this curious child who kept asking some very reasonable questions about threats to the Houses of Parliament, because surely there had to have been _plenty_ other than all that business with Guy Fawkes and the gunpowder?”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows, letting Gandalf tell his stories to children never normally ended well for their parents’ peace of mind.

“So I told her a little bit about the _very_ close shave we had in the Eighties - MI5 completely ballsed up - because the poor girl’s parents are never going to believe her, not with how hush-hush the whole thing was and…”

Gandalf trailed off, regarding his astonished companion with great amusement.

“What?” he asked, all too innocently when all Bilbo could manage were a few garbled sounds.

“ _What?_!” he managed to splutter, “You just calmly drop the fact Parliament nearly went ‘kaboom’ and nobody knows about it into the conversation like you’re passing observation on the weather.”

The man chuckled, “I’d be happy to tell you, of course, but I’m not at liberty to.”

Bilbo did not protest, especially as the man instead began to talk about the time he smuggled himself into St Petersburg in the late Seventies, just so he could see the Winter Palace, which was one he had heard once before, a long time ago, but was still immensely entertaining.

The entire afternoon only added to Bilbo’s conviction that no matter what the man insisted, Gandalf was no simple retired Oxford professor.

It was only when he ventured out onto his balcony later that evening that he realised his plan to distract himself had worked after all.

Thorin just smiled that half-smile of his, completely unaware of the turmoil he was causing in Bilbo’s mind.

* * *

Bilbo did not know he had been expecting snow until he found himself surprised to find Glasgow was just very, very cold, not helped by the driving rain or the bitter wind. Thorin did not seem put out by the weather in the slightest, standing resolute, his eyes locked on the traffic, presumably seeking out his sister’s car as they waited. Fíli, having just passed his test, was coming to pick them up, and Bilbo did his best to quash his doubts at the excitable seventeen year old's ability behind the wheel.

By the time Thorin stirred beside him, nodding at the dark blue Toyota hatchback that had pulled up nearby, Bilbo was shivering and so was more than happy to take the front seat, pointing all the front heaters in his direction, much to the entertainment of both uncle and nephew. Curling up in his seat slightly, he half-listened to Fíli’s complaints about the city centre’s one-way system, watching the different buildings that passed him on his left, seemingly getting newer the further they went into the suburbs.

Thorin’s family home, he knew, was an exception to this, though he wasn’t entirely sure what to anticipate. As they pulled into the driveway, past the tall trees that obscured the view of Ered Luin from the road he let a small gasp, leaning forward in his seat until his seatbelt cut uncomfortably into his neck.

“You live here?” he cried incredulously.

The house was beautiful; very typically Victorian with rich red bricks, a sweeping slate roof and an air of simplicity intermixed with one of grandeur. Its royal blue front door was set into an archway, flanked by two huge bay windows, each decorated with cream-painted stone.

“You like it?” Fíli asked proudly.

Bilbo just nodded slowly, still very much transfixed.

“You should see Erebor,” Thorin piped up. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo caught the exasperated look Fíli sent his uncle and smiled slightly. “Now she was a thing of majesty.”

“Oh yes, I forget,” he began, tone dripping mockery, “Mr ‘I Grew Up In A Castle But Had To Downgrade To A Mansion Oh Woe Is Me’.”

Fíli snickered whilst Thorin bore a chastened expression that on anyone else he would have called a _pout_.

“It’s more that my childhood home is now a hotel and spa that gets me,” he muttered defensively.

“I’m glad Prim and Drogo have Bag-End,” he commented as they exited the car. “Goodness knows what Lobelia would have done to the place.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow in that artful manner of his, “I thought you didn’t mind her so much now?”

“Doesn’t mean I have to approve of her home decor tastes.”

He shuddered briefly at the image of the rooms of Bag-End, polluted with his cousin’s wife’s garish taste in furniture.

“Mum, we’re back!” Fíli shouted. Bilbo barely had time to process the stained glass panel in the vestibule before he was bundled toward the back of the house into what turned out to be the kitchen.

Immediately, he was greeted by a woman who was unquestionably Thorin’s sister. She was shorter than he had been expecting, standing about an inch below Bilbo, though this made her no less intimidating as her sharp blues eyes regarded him appraisingly.

“You must be Dís.”

He offered his hand, but she swept it aside, choosing instead to engulf him in a hug that had the power to bruise. He patted her back awkwardly, still taken aback.

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Bilbo Baggins.”

Over her shoulder, he saw Fíli shoot his uncle a significant look and felt his own face heat slightly.

Once Dís relinquished her hold, she directed him to one of the heavy oak chairs at the kitchen table before sending her brother and son upstairs with the suitcases and instructions to go pick Kíli up from his ju-jitsu class within the next ten minutes. As she set about preparing some tea, she asked him some fairly mild questions and Bilbo found himself rather liking her already - she had an easy manner about her that reminded him of Prim.

“You know,” she began, setting the two mugs down on the table and taking the seat opposite. It was said with that resolute tone that signalled a move away from small talk. “I was worried about Thorin moving all the way down to London.”

“He bears no great love for the place,” Bilbo conceded. He knew from their conversations that Thorin still very much regarded Scotland as his home and he tried not to let that bother him.

“He called it home when I called him last week.”

“Oh,” he replied, unable to think of any response to that. There was an edge to Dís’ tone that he couldn’t discern, whether she was accusing or not.

“Honestly, I was expecting him to hate the place,” she said after a moment. “I’m glad he’s settled so well, and so quickly.”

“I think having Dwalin and Glóin there helps.”

“Perhaps,” she mused, “But they’re not the ones he speaks to pretty much every day, are they?”

Bilbo frowned a little; his balcony conversations with his neighbour were woven so closely into the routine of his London life, that time precious to him in such a way that he dared not think on whether they were significant to Thorin. Apparently, they were, and warmth flowed through his chest at the thought.

When he reflected on how important Thorin was to him now, he was ever amused at how badly their first few encounters had gone.

At his chuckle, Dís raised an eyebrow with the same manner as her brother.

“When I first met your brother,” he said, “I found him so incredibly rude that I spent about a month cursing his existence.”

She laughed at that, the sound rich and melodious.

“He’s never been one for politeness.”

“When I told him I was an author, he was like ‘So you’re a bartender then?’”

“I bet his face was a picture!” she giggled, “Did he do the the thing-”

“-where his right eyes twitches? Yes!”

After their laughter had died away, she fixed him with that assessing look again and Bilbo tried not to shift under that piercing blue gaze.

“At least you like him now, eh?” The question was light and teasing, but there was a glint in her eyes that made him duck his head to look upon his milky tea.

He nodded, not trusting himself to answer without blurting out the truth. From what he observed in the twenty minutes he had known her, and what he had pieced together from Thorin and her sons, saying ‘I think I’m falling in love with your brother’ would mean he would not escape the conversation unscathed.

“Good.”

However, given the half-smile curling her lips up, Bilbo had the distinct feeling that she probably already knew.

The conversation drifted to much safer topics, but it was not until the boys came back that he relaxed in his seat, allowing his attention to be consumed by both of Dís’ sons. Both bombarding him so that his mind did not linger on thoughts of their uncle for too long.

But as he lay back in the cool sheets of the unfamiliar bed, he wondered how much longer he would be able to keep up this act; pretending that each time he saw Thorin, he didn’t just want to plaster the man to the nearest wall and kiss him senseless.

With a growl, he rolled over and buried his face in a pillow.

This was going to be a trying week.

* * *

However difficult Bilbo had expected the week to be for his restraint, it was nowhere near as bad as the Saturday night turned out to be. With St Andrew’s Day the following week, the local church was putting on a ceilidh and when Fíli mentioned it in passing, Bilbo had asked what one was. He was sure he had encountered the term before, his mind conjuring up the foggy memory of an aunt’s birthday party back when he was a child and lots and lots of twirling people.

Kíli seemed affronted, “You don’t know what a ceilidh is? Well now we _have_ to go, don’t we Uncle Thorin?”

Thorin had that rare, mischievous smile Bilbo usually associated with his nephews.

“Oh yes.”

It wasn’t until he was being strong-armed around the hall by Dís and Fíli in a dance the MC called something like ‘Dashing White Sergeant’ that Bilbo understood - he had no clue what he was doing whilst everyone else, if he understood Kíli correctly, learnt this at school. Rather than this being off-putting, however, he found himself laughing with each step he stumbled, with each wrong turn he made.

When the dance was finished, he collapsed into his seat, offering Thorin a lazy grin as the man held out a cold cup of wine. He drained half of it in two quick gulps, not listening as the next dance was announced. Putting his glass down, he turned to find Thorin holding out his hand.

“Would you like-”

Barrelling over to them, Kíli cut him off.

“Bilbo! Will you dance with me? Please?”

Thorin waved them both away and Bilbo pushed away the surge of disappointment. Dragging him over to the two circles that had formed, Kíli set Bilbo in front of him, in the inner circle, something that amused him greatly when he realised that it was composed almost entirely of women.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” the boy informed him calmly, “So I lead.”

The dance was a fast-paced one and Bilbo found himself grateful when he realised he had it slightly easier than his partner, whose brow would occasionally furrow in concentration over the more complicated steps. Bilbo was just making it up as he went along, adding in a hop when he could as he had no idea where it went.

Red cheeked and exhilarated by the end, he mustered up the courage and seized Thorin’s hand, pulling the larger man to his feet before he could second guess himself.

“How about that dance?”

He paid less attention to the steps this time around, focused as he was on the touch of warm hands, the slight sting of sweat in his nose, intermixed with the musk that was entirely Thorin’s and the deep rumbling chuckles each time Bilbo added in a hop or a skip. If he did a few more just for the pleasant knotting in his stomach at that laugh, well then what did it matter, if it kept Thorin smiling like that?

Reluctantly, he swore off the next dance, his feet becoming too tired, though he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the ceilidh with Thorin, seeing the invigorated spark in those impossibly blue eyes that he knew was mirrored in his own.

Dís came over then to claim her brother for a dance and Bilbo was quite happy to just sit and watch, sipping on the remainder of his wine and waiting for his breathing to slow.

“You two make quite the handsome pair,” a voice to his left said conversationally. He turned to see a lady at the next table, looking at him with bright hazel eyes.

She smiled, crows feet crinkling, and continued, “I haven’t seen Dís’ brother so happy in a while.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to explain how she had misunderstood, but at that moment his eyes drifted to Thorin again and at the sight of him, head thrown back in laughter at something his sister had said, the protest came crashing to a halt on his tongue.

Reaching over, she patted him gently on the hand, “It’s in your eyes, you see, and how they follow him as if he’s the only thing you see - my late husband and I looked at each other much the same way.”

She gave him another grin then, as the last dance was announced, oblivious to the chaos she had sparked in Bilbo’s mind.

Thorin moved towards him, but was claimed by his eldest nephew and Bilbo instead found himself partnered with Dís, standing opposite her in one of the two long rows that had formed. Thorin beside her gave him a reassuring smile.

“Strip the Willow is easy - lots of spinning.”

“I’ll go gentle on you,” his sister winked.

At that moment, in the small Scottish dance hall, as he let himself be whirled around by Dís and the others, at that moment he _knew_. He was in freefall no longer; he had landed at the the bottom of the ravine without noticing, and now there was no clear way out, no escape. But, as his eyes locked with Thorin’s briefly as they twirled, he decided that he had no desire to escape.

He, Bilbo Baggins, was happy.

He was also completely, perfectly and unreservedly in love with Thorin Oakenshield.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uncle you’re an idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little longer than normal, but I have a hugely busy week ahead of me, so I won't be able to post the next chapter until next weekend, I'm afraid. The next chapter will be the last one, which I'm sad about, because I've enjoyed writing this so much, but this was originally meant to be a one shot and it sort of...expanded...  
> Once again, big thank you to everyone who has commented/kudos'd/bookmarked/subscribed, you all make my day!  
> Also, I feel like I should apologise in advance - Thorin is such a sappy idiot.

Bilbo flashed him a smile, just before he stepped through the doors into the assembly hall and Thorin almost missed its nervous edge and so his own reassuring gesture was missed, fingertips skimming the air where a velvet-clad shoulder had once been.

Watching, he saw Bilbo Baggins pass through and Tilion Took emerge on the other side. Thorin would have been amazed that he had not noticed it before, but then he had not see Bilbo adopt his pseudonym persona since the book signing; it was all in the almost imperceptible straightening of the shoulders, the chin lifting fractionally higher and a steady weight to his voice.

As Bilbo read, his speech thrummed with latent energy, his words drawing in even those who kept glancing at their phones until the whole hall was enthralled under his spell. Reading the words on a page was nothing like hearing them from the mouth of Tilion Took himself - he was a true wordsmith.

When he was finished, he descended from the stage, leaving the headmistress to announce that _yes_ Mr Took would be meeting with students and signing books after lunchtime, and he moved over to Thorin, eyes bright and cheerful as he became Bilbo once more.

“I forget how good it feels to just _read_ ,” he sighed.

“They all seemed to really enjoy it,” Thorin nodded his head back towards the hall. “Especially with the extra bits added.”

He froze - one slip of the tongue and he had let the cat out of the bag.

Bilbo, however, seemed not to notice, and he kept walking.

“Well I like to add in a few things each time, to make it special-” he cut himself off, stopping in place several paces ahead of Thorin and whirling around. “You’ve read my books?”

Fighting off the panic swirling in his gut, Thorin shrugged, “I had to see what my nephews were making such a fuss about.”

“And what do you think?”

“Pretty impressive,” he grinned playfully, “For a bartender.”

Bilbo huffed, but Thorin caught the teasing glint in his eye, ‘You’re just jealous because I can make your nephews listen to me.”

“They listen to me!”

At Bilbo’s incredulous look, he conceded, “On occasion.”

Bilbo laughed that tinkling laugh Thorin loved and pulled his friend along the corridor, complaining about hunger the entire way.

* * *

Thorin was in love with Bilbo.

He had been well aware of his high regard for the man, but it had been coming on so gradually, he hadn’t actually realised how much trouble he was in.

Oh he had known he was in trouble, yes, but he still had not known how much.

Then it had smacked him, full force, in a moment that seemed too ordinary for such an epiphany.

He went outside, into the cold night air, to look upon the city, watching as the wisps of his breath curled and then disappeared. Bilbo was on his balcony, balanced precariously on the cast iron chair as he strung up fairy lights. Huffing to himself disparagingly about his height, he was stretching as he wove the wire through one of his hanging baskets and Thorin noticed how his cheeks were coloured pink from the cold. He was beautiful.

After he noticed his neighbour, Bilbo clambered down and moved to join Thorin at their customary spots. His hair was mussed, his eyes were bright and he was cast in a warm glow by the yellow light spilling from his flat.

“You’re a bit early,” he said, nodding to the string of yellow lights. Thorin was a firm believer in not putting up any Christmas decorations before December.

Bilbo shrugged, “I normally put them up on the first, but since we’re away then…” His words trailing off, Bilbo’s eyes drifted over to the garish flashing lights that decorated a building across the street and he gave a happy sigh, “I love this time of year.”

At that moment, the words ‘I love you’ bubbled up in Thorin’s mind before he knew what was happening.

He could try and push it away, he supposed - blame it on the glow in Bilbo’s cheeks or the faint smell of flowers in the air - but as he listened to the man describe his Christmas traditions at Bag-End, he noted that it was impossible to pretend he was anything other than ridiculously, hopelessly in love with Bilbo Baggins.

Yet, the man had, above all, become a very dear friend and Thorin was not going to risk it, not on the flicker of hope burning in his chest that told him the man may feel the same way.

Dís, of course, thought he was being a complete and utter idiot. Not that that was unusual - his sister always thought he was an idiot. She described it as endemic to the males in their family.

Being contrary, however, that was _all_ Dís.

“Thorin,” she ground out, adopting that exasperated tone that she only seemed to use on her sons nowadays, “He makes you _happy_.”

He groaned - their argument was going round in circles for the past ten minutes. She couldn’t understand why Thorin would not risk it - for she was one who _had_ and it had paid off (at least for a time) - and he could feel his frustration growing that she would not see how Bilbo was worth the pain it caused him.

His sister regarded him coolly.

Dís, he knew, had grown to like Bilbo over the course of their week-long stay but he wasn’t sure if she knew just how fond his nephews were of the man.

“It would be selfish,” he replied gently.

Frowning, she opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head and gestured for her to follow him from the kitchen. In the hallway the sound of laughter could be heard, drifting through the door to the front sitting room as it stood ajar.

Unseen, they watched the scene in the room; Bilbo sandwiched between the two boys, Fíli’s laptop on his knees, all three of them in hysterics at whatever they were watching.

An arm wrapped around him, Dís awkwardly hugging him to her and, looking down, he saw the sad look of understanding in her eyes.

“It’s for them,” she whispered.

He nodded, echoing her, “For them.”

Kíli spotted them then, leaping up in his seat to point at them accusingly over the back of the sofa.

“I fart in your general direction!”

Chuckling at Bilbo’s sheepish expression, Thorin moved to leave the room again, but not before Kíli could shout out one last quote.

“My hovercraft is full of eels!”

* * *

Features cast in a warm glow by the fairy lights and the half-light of the early dusk, Bilbo was nestled in the iron chair on his balcony, nose buried in a book when Thorin arrived home from work. He was tired after his first week back after Scotland and the couple of hours of impromptu Christmas shopping that afternoon which he’d regretted the instant he braved the Westfield shopping centre and found himself swarmed by shoppers and the cloying sounds of Christmas songs.

At least he’d managed to find a present for Dís, if not one for the boys or anyone else.

Bilbo looked up when he stepped outside, still in his scarf and long grey wool coat.

“You’re back late,” he commented, setting his book aside.

“Been shopping,” Thorin muttered, thoughts darkening at the prospect of returning.

Bilbo nodded in understanding. He untucked his bare feet from under him and stood up slowly.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Bilbo jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where a small patio-heater stood, emitting a faint red glow.

“Ah.”

There was a beat of silence as Bilbo moved over to join him at their railings.

“So did you buy anything nice?”

Thorin shrugged, “Just a present for Dís.”

“What did you get?”

“A necklace.”

Bilbo was giving him a look, one of the ones that usually signified a person was being particularly obtuse. Thorin found it was directed at him quite a bit. At that moment, he did not care too much, more distracted by the faint scent of cinnamon that emanated from his neighbour.

“Can I see it?”

“I got it gift wrapped.”

Rolling his eyes, Bilbo sighed, “Well what’s it like then?”

“Gold, with a sapphire.”

“Well aren’t we just the fountain of information tonight,” he muttered sarcastically.

Up close, Thorin could see a smudge of flour on Bilbo’s forehead and a light dusting of it in his hair. So he’d been baking then.

“What did you make?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Bilbo’s head snapped up, his grey eyes confused.

Thorin gestured vaguely to the mop of dark blond curls, “You have flour in your hair.”

Self-consciously, Bilbo ruffled his hair, releasing the flour in a small white cloud.

“Just some cinnamon cookies,” he said. “I’ll get you one, if you like?” he added, before Thorin even asked. Thorin doubted he’d ever be able to refuse Bilbo’s baking.  

His mind wandering whilst Bilbo disappeared into his flat, Thorin deliberated on what it would be like to replay this oddly domestic scene with them both on the one balcony, not separated by two iron railings and a two foot drop; to be able to come in to the scent of baking, to go out onto the balcony and wrap his arms around the smaller man, press a kiss to those pale lips…

With a several cookies on a plate in his hand and one more hanging between those lips, Bilbo stepped back outside and Thorin felt his lips curl in an ironic smile.

No more of this damn _wanting_ , now that would be a fine thing.

Taking one of the cookies, Thorin wasted no time to bite into it and upon doing so let out an involuntary moan deep in his throat.

Bilbo shifted slightly, a faint pink dustin his cheeks.

“I take it you like them then?”

“They’re divine,” he said genuinely and he took another, biting into its crisp sugared coating without hesitation.

“It was my dad’s recipe.” Bilbo smiled sadly and absentmindedly touched his hand to his neck, where Thorin could see the faint glistening of a silver chain.

He wanted nothing more in that moment than to reach out and cup that cheek reassuringly in his hand, but he did not, _could not_ , and instead forced his hand where it had lifted through his hair in frustration then back onto the cold iron bar.

“What’s that?” he instead asked curiously, nodding at where Bilbo’s hand had now moved to clasp around whatever pendant hung on the chain.

Startled from his reverie, Bilbo blinked for a moment before releasing his grip and lifting the small silver circle forward on the back of his hand.

“It’s my mum’s St Christopher,” he said, “You know, the patron saint of travellers?”

Thorin nodded. “It’s beautiful,” he breathed.

Silence fell between them once more, though it was not the uncomfortable sort, it was of a companionable nature, the kind Thorin was only used to with a few people like Dwalin or his sister. Yet again he was struck by how _precious_ this was, whatever it was that existed between him and Bilbo, and he would not, _could not_ , risk it.  

Lost in thought, Bilbo’s eyes were fixed on some indiscernible point just over Thorin’s shoulder.

“I just had a brilliant idea,” Bilbo said suddenly, “Tomorrow, we can go Christmas shopping together, since it’s never fun on one’s own. What do you say?”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, “Tomorrow’s Saturday, won’t it be even busier?”

That small smile turned slightly wicked, “You underestimate the effectiveness of a few well placed elbows.”

Thorin had indeed underestimated the effectiveness of a few well placed elbows - Bilbo could be _vicious_. The speed at which he navigated the crowd of shoppers on Oxford Street was, quite frankly, startling and he dragged Thorin along with him, he who moved with less grace amongst the throng as they plunged into _John Lewis_.

“Right,” Bilbo said decisively, pulling Thorin into an emptier aisle between two jewellery counters, “We’re in here to sort out Fíli and Kíli, correct?”

“Yes, so we’ll be sticking to the electronics department.”

Bilbo nodded, satisfied, but his eyes drifted to something behind Thorin. Turning, Thorin followed his gaze until he spotted the cabinet of expensive ballpoints and fountain pens.

Thorin smirked in amusement, “I thought we were just going to be in and out?”

He was ignored, as Bilbo moved past him, gaze locked on the middle shelf in particular.

“They’re just so pretty,” he murmured, hand moving as if to stroke one of the pens through the glass. Thorin took note of that pen, silver plated with a small, elegant engraving of an oak tree upon the barrel and then tugged lightly at Bilbo’s arm.

“Come along, you can stare at the pens when we haven’t got hoards of shoppers to contend with.”

Bilbo snapped back to his determined glare once more and then pulled Thorin after him once again towards the escalators, headed for the fifth floor.

“I think it’s best to split up once we get there,” Bilbo said into Thorin’s ear, breath cool and ticklish, oblivious to the pleasant prickles it sent across the skin at the back of the other’s neck. He just nodded dumbly. “I’ll go get Kíli’s videogames, because I’m better at this, and you can just get Fíli’s new iPod from the Apple Store bit, agreed?”

Thorin gave a hum of assent but they once again stepped into the fray, separating after agreeing to meet in thirty minutes at the ground floor door they had entered through and as soon as Bilbo had disappeared into the crowd, Thorin dashed towards the downwards escalator, taking note of the ridiculous queue within the Apple department, and he ran down the steps as they moved, paying no heed to the disgruntled cries his pace elicited.

As he had hoped, the counter was not busy, with only one other customer and so he moved towards the attendant with a purposeful stride.

The pen was even nicer up close and he wasted no time in purchasing it, hiding it deep in the folds of his coat before speeding back to the escalators and up towards the electronics department.

All in all, he was only a little late to meet Bilbo, arriving at the door breathlessly, but with a triumphant smile as he held out the bag.

“Don’t worry,” Bilbo said with a dismissive gesture, “I saw you in the queue when I was on my way down, it looked horrendous.”

Thorin was just glad for the good fortune that the queue grew even further whilst he was in it, making his pretence that he had been there all along all the more plausible.

“How about we go get something to drink?” he suggested and was rewarded by that warm smile.

“That would be perfect.”

They exited at a far more sedate place, headed for a coffee shop Bilbo knew off Oxford Street and Thorin listened, enraptured as Bilbo described the one time he had let Gandalf take him Christmas shopping and had somehow ended up in Berlin.

“Since Gandalf is involved, I’m surprised you didn’t find yourself a guest of the Chancellor or something.”

Bilbo chuckled, “He left me in a Christmas market for a while, so he probably went to have tea.”

He was jostled into Thorin then, and grabbed the crook of his elbow to steady himself.

“Bloody shoppers,” he muttered grimly.

They carried on, and Thorin was glad to leave the hustling main shopping street. Bilbo’s hand remained a comforting presence on his arm, the other gesticulating lightly as he continued to talk and for that moment, in the bright glow of the festive lights, Thorin let himself hope.

He smiled.

* * *

Dwalin was giving him one of his arch looks again, a smirk playing on his lips beneath his beard. Thorin chose to ignore him, instead turning his attention to the dusk as it settled on the Scottish Lowlands as they rolled by. His thoughts drifted back to Bilbo and their parting earlier that day. Bilbo had gifted him with four small packages, one each for him, his sister and his nephews.

“Just a little something,” he said, brushing it off.

Thorin handed over the small, neatly wrapped present that was the pen, with the assurance that that too was ‘just a token’, certain he was going to be told off once Bilbo opened it and glad he would not be within striking distance. He also had a bottle of wine for Prim and Drogo, to be opened after the baby was born of course, wrapped in tissue paper and ribbon and placed in a slim red bottle bag.

The instant they were off the train, Thorin found himself swept into the arms of his sister and he had no more time to think of Bilbo as he was soon immersed in an eventful dinner with his family once again.

Fíli and Kíli had become the toast of their school, it seemed, for their association with Bilbo. Their cheer at having finished for Christmas only increased when Thorin brought out the presents, both from himself and Bilbo, from his suitcase and they quickly dashed away to place them carefully amongst the pile beneath the Christmas tree in the front living room.

Dís had tutted as soon as she had learned Bilbo had given them all gifts, “I’ll have to have words with him. Honestly, and we gave nothing in return.”

Thorin was certain he looked quite sheepish right then.

His sister sighed though her smile became tinged with a slight melancholy.

“Oh Thorin.”

She wanted to talk about it more, he could tell, but he evaded her, feigning tiredness. Thankfully, in the few days left before Christmas day, they were all too busy; buying and preparing food and readying the house for visitors. As with every year they were host to Dwalin and his elder brother Balin and this year Glóin’s brother Óin would be joining them as he was on call at the hospital on the 24th and wouldn’t be able to make it down to London to spend it with his brother’s family.

They were quite the merry house come Christmas dinner, with food and company aplenty and the conversation and the wine flowing freely. Filled with warmth, he and the other men moved through to the back sitting room whilst Dís and her sons cleared the dining room. They had all just settled down to play a game of Hearts when the phone rang and Dís popped her head around the door.

She held out the receiver towards him, her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Thorin, it’s for you.”

He nodded, “Thanks, can you take my place?” he gestured towards the hand Óin had just finished dealing him. “Don’t worry about clearing up, I’ll do it.”

His sister looked reluctant for a moment but handed over the phone and slid into Thorin’s empty seat.

Passing through the door into the hallway, he raised it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“ _You,_ Mr Oakenshield, are in severe trouble,” a familiar voice growled.

His mouth smiled or it’s own accord, even at the irate tone.

“Bilbo.”

“Don’t ‘Bilbo’ me mister. A token gift my _arse_.”

Thorin opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by Bilbo before a sound could pass his lips.

“And don’t you try and argue with me - that was a _silver_ pen.”

“Do you like it though?” he asked, a small twinge of worry in his gut at Bilbo’s persisting anger - perhaps he had picked the wrong one.

“Of course I like it!” Bilbo snapped. “I bloody _love_ it, it’s beautiful. It’s just far too much for a present between friends. How the hell did you know _exactly_ which one I wanted?”

Thorin kept quiet, not wishing for Bilbo to know quite how closely he had been looking at him, sure it would give him away entirely.

After a brief silence, Bilbo took in a deep breath.

“So how did you like your present?”

More than words; Bilbo had commissioned a green leather-bound copy of his third book from Westmarch's, the inside covers a geometric Art Deco pattern in black and gold. On the title page was the small insignia of an oak tree and beneath the title, the inscription ' _My friend, you have become dear to me these past few months, despite our somewhat rude beginning. Here is the work of a humble barista. Love Bilbo._ '

In his opinion, it was worth far more than a simple pen, it was far more precious than any mere token.

"It renders you a complete hypocrite, quite frankly," he said plainly. "As do your presents for the boys and Dís - you commissioned us things Bilbo. They're absolutely wonderful."

He could sense Bilbo practically glowing at the other end of line.

"Well it seems we both got gifts slightly more extravagant than is strictly necessary," Bilbo said with a wry laugh.

Thorin chuckled, "It would seem so."

For a few minutes more they spoke of their days so far before Bilbo was called away by Prim who, according to Bilbo, looked just about ready to pop.   

Entering the kitchen, he was aware of the smile playing across his lips as he placed the phone back in the cradle and moved to join the boys where they were washing up at the sink.

"Who was that?" Fíli asked as his uncle appeared at his side, tea towel in hand.

"Just Bilbo."

"Just Bilbo?" his nephew repeated, an incredulous note to his voice.

Thorin shrugged in response and started to dry a large iron pan. "We were telling each other off for our Christmas presents."

Once he finished drying the pan, he turned to find his oldest nephew giving him a look he had most definitely inherited by his mother, one with far too much awareness for a mere seventeen year old.

“Uncle you’re an idiot,” Fíli stated plainly after a moment’s silence.

Thorin raised his eyebrows, “How so?”

“Bilbo’s always more smiley around you, or when he’s talking about you, or when someone else is talking about you.”

He stamped out that brief flare of hope - it was just Fíli being naive.

“Bilbo’s just a smiley person.”

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Fíli muttered sardonically, “I swear _I’ll_ die of old age before you do anything.”

“Uncle Thorin, think what a good uncle he’d make,” Kíli piped up as he rejoined them at the sink. Thorin would be lying if he were to say, that on some lonely Sunday afternoon, he hadn’t entertained the thought of Bilbo becoming a part of his family. Though, in a vague sense of the word, he already was.

He arched an eyebrow at the youngest. “Aren’t I a good uncle?”

“He makes you less grumpy.” Kíli shrugged. “And he’s also not as old.”

“I’m not old!”

Fíli laughed and Kíli looked at him as if he had just declared that he still believed in Santa.

“You’re _forty-six_.”

* * *

The rest of his week passed by in good cheer and at a leisurely pace with his family and Dwalin yet all too soon he was on a train, ready to return to London.

“Remind me why we’re not staying for Hogmanay again?” his friend asked, glaring out of the window as they pulled into Carlisle.

“Because we do Hogmanay every year, and the party would be a nice way to get to know our neighbours.”

“You forget, I don’t live in Arda,” Dwalin remarked dryly. Oh yes, he did sometimes forget that his best friend didn’t live just down the road, as they did in Glasgow, but in Shoreditch on the other side of the city. “At least, not yet,” he added in a mutter.

“Wait,” Thorin said sharply as soon as he had processed the words, “You’re moving into Arda?”

Dwalin shrugged, “Probably, around February time. Bastard landlord’s trying to hike up my rent to something ridiculous.”

“But the only free flat is on the fifth floor?”

Dwalin grimaced and Thorin did too, at the thought of the fifth floor’s haughty residents.

“It’s better than nothing.” His eyes moved back to look out of the window for a moment before they snapped back to Thorin, his lips curving into a suggestive leer. “Unless of course, you get your act together, then you can live with Bilbo and we can be next door neighbours.”

Almost choking on the mouthful of coffee he had been drinking, Thorin glared at his friend.

“Don’t be ridiculous Dwalin.”

By the time they arrived back in London, it was late at night so Dwalin, who would be staying at his flat for the night, and he only dumped their bags before collapsing into the cold sheets of their respective beds.

He awoke late the following morning, though earlier than he would have liked, to the distant sound of that awful pigeon and Bilbo’s annoyed shouts.

Dwalin was already in the kitchen when he surfaced, with coffee brewing in the pot and bacon frying on the hob.

“Sometimes I forget to dislike you,” he grumbled, taking the glass of orange juice Dwalin held out.

“What’s going on out there?” his friend asked, nodding towards the glass door.

“ _Smaug_ ,” Thorin growled, then, at his friend’s amused look, expanded, “Evil possessed pigeon. Never shuts the fuck up.”

“And you don’t just kill it because…?”

Sighing exasperatedly, Thorin patted Dwalin’s forearm, “You can’t just _kill_ Smaug. He is the devil in bird form. He’s _clever_.”

The other man burst into laughter, creasing over and clutching at his stomach.

“This is no laughing manner,” he said soberly.

“You’ve been outsmarted by a _pigeon_ ,” Dwalin managed through guffaws.

Thorin chose to ignore him for the rest of breakfast.

Neither did much all morning; Thorin spoke to Bilbo briefly on the balcony before both decided to retreat indoors from the cold and it was not too long after that that Gandalf appeared to remind Thorin he had agreed to help set up again and whether Dwalin would mind terribly at mucking in as well?

Bofur was overjoyed to find a kindred spirit in Dwalin and most of their time in the basement was spent mocking the mannerisms of the fifth floor.

By nine o’clock, the party was in full swing with most of Arda’s residents gathered in the basement rooms. Thranduil was complaining to anyone who was fool enough to listen about how he had had to move all his precious wines back into his flat for the evening.

“Twat could’ve donated some of them to the party,” Bofur muttered bitterly.

“Aye, instead of that piss he bought from _Tesco_ ,” Dwalin agreed, eying the plastic cup of wine in Thorin’s hand with distaste.

“You think all wine is shite,” Thorin commented.

Dwalin shrugged, “It is. All tastes the same too.”

They chatted for a few moments more before Thorin went off in search of more liquor from one of the other rooms and ended up being pulled into a conversation with Galadriel; she was kindly and disconcertingly beautiful, but suffered by association, living on the fifth floor. Her love for Scotland redeemed her a great deal and it was only when Bofur entered the room and gave him a look of mock-betrayal that he realised quite how immersed in their discussion of the Glasgow Boys’ art he had become.

His evening passed in a pleasant blur of wine and conversation (and perhaps a little dancing, but he was going to try and forget about that, it was Bilbo and Bofur’s fault). At some point Bilbo found him, and slightly tipsy from the wine, latched onto Thorin’s arm.

He glared at every look he received from Dwalin, Bofur, Gandalf and, at one point, _Elrond_ and refused to acknowledge the blush that flared on his neck each time he caught the attractive flush on Bilbo’s cheeks or the brightness in those blue eyes.

Not long before midnight, Bilbo tugged him in the direction of the door, claiming need of air, and Thorin, being the lovestruck idiot that he was, did not waste time in acquiescing, allowing himself to be pulled from the room and out to the courtyard.

The air was cold, especially when neither were wearing anything more than a shirt, but the night was clear and Thorin leant against the wall with a happy sigh, staring up at the few stars that were bright enough to shine through the orange haze cast by the city. Bilbo followed suit, though he instead looked thoughtfully into his cup of wine as if it held whatever answer he was seeking.

“Do you ever think-” Bilbo began but cut himself off with a frustrated noise. Thorin turned his head down to the man beside him. With a sigh, Bilbo started again, “Do you ever think we’re maybe being really stupid?”

Thorin’s mind ground to a halt. Did he- Bilbo couldn’t possibly mean- No, he dare not hope such a thing. Barely registering the sound of the countdown drifting up from the basement, Thorin struggled around for an answer that would not give him away entirely in case he had misunderstood.

Then, he wasn’t thinking anymore - all thoughts were rushed out of his head because suddenly Bilbo was _kissing_ him. His chest swelled in joy. Those lips pulled away just as quickly as they had come. Thorin barely had time to process a pair of bright startled eyes before Bilbo was gone, leaving him reeling in his wake.

He made to go follow Bilbo inside, but at that moment his hazy mind was unable to focus on anything but the echo of warm lips pressed to his own.

Smiling to himself, he tilted his head to look back up at the dark sky.

Bilbo had _kissed_ him.

Perhaps he wasn’t so helpless after all.

Perhaps he had a chance.

When his heart had settled and the cold was starting to set into his bones, he returned to the party, fighting off the small wave of disappointment that surfaced when Bilbo was nowhere to be seen. For perhaps an hour longer, he remained in the basement, trying not to look quite as dreamy as he was feeling before he excused himself as a surge of tiredness hit and retreated upstairs.

A faint strip of light could be seen emanating from beneath Bilbo’s door and he paused, arm raised ready to knock. No, he would wait until morning, when he was sober and fully awake - Bilbo deserved that at least.

He went to sleep smiling.

In the morning, he barely gave himself time to get dressed before he was knocking at Bilbo’s door. For each moment that passed with no answer, he felt his hope be quashed by his rather more realistic side. Of course  - was mistaken - he was stupid enough to _hope_ when, to Bilbo, it had probably been nothing more than a drunken whimsy.

Bofur greeted him from his end of the corridor, managing a half-hearted smile despite the very obvious hangover he was sporting.

“Is Bilbo in?” he asked.

Bofur had frowned then, this thick brows swooping down to knit together. “You mean he didn’t tell you?”

Thorin felt his stomach clench painfully. But _of course_.

“Bilbo’s gone.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What have you done to my brother?”

Bilbo slammed his door forcefully then collapsed against it, breathing ragged and heart pounding forcefully in his chest. How could have been so _stupid?_ Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ Sinking down to the floor with a sigh, he let his head fall into his hands.

Thorin just looked so perfect, face cast in shadow by the soft glow coming from the building and those blue, blue eyes were fixed on him, their gaze as soft as ever and he was not able to resist. Spurred on by the wine coursing through his veins, he leaned up and kissed those lips as he had wanted to for so long. Lord, how he _wanted_ it. And that brief moment of contact was all it took; it terrified him how _right_ it felt and so, like the utter coward he was, he fled.

The tinny sound of _Help!_ cut through the silence like a knife, making Bilbo jump and he scrambled to pull his mobile from his pocket, raising it to his ear.

“Drogo?”

“Bilbo!” Drogo cried in relief, his voice filled with a mix of panic and excitement. “It’s Prim, her waters have just broke!”

In an instant, Bilbo was on his feet and headed for his bedroom. He threw his small holdall onto the bed and began to fling in random items of clothing and various other necessities whilst Drogo continued to talk frantically.

“Drogo,” Bilbo said in a tone much calmer than what he was feeling, “I know it’s hard, but you need to calm down - get Prim to the hospital and I will be there as soon as I can. I think there’s a train at around five, so I can be with you by seven in the morning, okay?”

He heard his cousin take a deep breath before speaking, “Yes, get Prim to hospital, and you will be here soon.”

“You can do this,” Bilbo said kindly.

“Yes,” there was a pause, and when he spoke again, Bilbo could hear the grin his tone, “Bilbo, I’m going to be a _father_.”

Once his suitcase was packed, he scrawled a quick note to Bofur on a post-it and went and stuck it on his door down the hall.

On his way back, he paused at his door, looking to Thorin’s door, a thin strip of golden light glowing at the bottom, and went as if to knock but then stopped himself, grabbing his bag and keys from just inside his flat. Locking his door, he gave one last glance to Thorin’s door before he carried on towards the lift and ignored the surge of longing in his chest.

Looked like he was running away again.

His footsteps echoed eerily in the empty lobby, loud against the distant sound of revelry downstairs. Despite it being New Year’s Eve, it was still early, and so it only took Bilbo about ten minutes to hail a taxi to take him to Paddington station.

In the dim fluorescent lights, the station had a strange atmosphere that sent shivers down Bilbo’s spine and he hurried over to one of the ticket machines. Thankfully, there was a train departing at twenty-past five and he quickly purchased a ticket, not really caring at the extortionate price and then shuffled to the lone open coffee counter and ordered a large coffee, hoping the caffeine would keep him awake until he had to board his train.

Dozing the entire journey, Bilbo was feeling mildly less groggy when the train pulled into the station at Gloucester. It took him almost half and hour to find a taxi and just as the car had pulled away from the kerb, his phone rang again.

“Bilbo? You here?” It was Saradoc - Drogo and Esme, the birth-partner, were probably in the room with Prim at that moment.

“Just in a taxi, I’ll be there shortly. How’s it going?”

“I could hear a lot of screaming. I thought I’d better ring you because Prim was shouting something about ‘ _where the fuck is Bilbo?_ ’ in between cursing Drogo for doing this to her.”

Bilbo chuckled, “I can well imagine.”

“She’s fully dilated now,” Sara continued, his voice thick with discomfort. “Though there’s been no moves towards… unloading yet.”

Snorting incredulously, Bilbo repeated, “ _Unloading?_ God help us if you and Esme ever end up having kids.”

“I won’t be down the business end, that’s for sure.”

“So you’ll be in arms reach instead?”

There was a sort of strangled alarmed squeal from the other end of the line. “Maybe I’ll have a convenient fainting attack.”

After telling him the ward number, Sara hung up and Bilbo passed the rest of the drive in silent anticipation, fingers drumming nervously upon his knee.

Practically bursting out of the taxi, he moved across the hospital lobby in a half-run, half-walk, completely failing in his vague attempt to look dignified.

The woman on the reception desk seemed to regard him with some degree of amusement.

“Maternity ward?”she prompted and he nodded.

“Bilbo Baggins, here to see Primula Baggins.”

“Ah, yes, Mrs Baggins actually left a note for you.” If possible the brunette looked even more entertained as she handed over what looked to be one of Drogo’s handkerchiefs. In a barely legible scrawl across it, was, written in black permanent marker, ‘ _Hurry the fuck up_!’

He let out a brief laugh and folded it away into the pocket of his dress trousers.

“Lifts are on your left,” the receptionist directed, “Sixth floor, then you’ll want to follow the corridor to your right and it’s the fifth ward on the left.”

Thanking her quickly, Bilbo was off again, near enough jumping on his feet in the lift and skidding slightly upon the polished floors in his haste. Saradoc was waiting for him outside the ward and he was pulled inside with barely enough chance to wash and disinfect his hands. In the corridor they waited on cool plastic seats, neither bothering to speak and listening to Primula’s shouts and curses, some enough to make even a sailor blush.

At just after twenty past nine, a euphoric Drogo stumbled out, huge dark bags under his eyes, but a proud smile upon his face.

“I’m a dad,” he said slowly, as if his mind were still processing the fact, “To a beautiful baby boy.”

Bilbo pulled his cousin into a tight hug. “Congratulations.”

Ignoring the protest of the nurse, Drogo pulled Bilbo and Sara into the delivery room where an exhausted Prim sat on the bed, her newborn child wrapped in a bundle in her arms.

Her hair hung in messy strands, clinging to the shiny rivulets of sweat on her brow, a small, genuine grin played on her lips and in her bright eyes and she was quite simply radiant.

“Bilbo,” she half-whispered, “I’d like you to meet your nephew; Frodo.”

The babe in her arms made a slight gurgling noise and opened his tiny eyes, the same warm blue as a summer sky.

“Hello Frodo.”

* * *

A few days later, Prim and Frodo came home and she was incredibly amused when either her husband or her dear friend would hold the baby as both would hold him so gently, as if scared to break him, marvelling at the tiny life they held in their arms. Bilbo was too blown away each time a tiny pink hand curled around his finger to really care.

At that moment, Drogo was sitting with his son cradled in his arms, his eyes teary as he stared down, one finger stroking softly over Frodo’s dark curls. Bilbo sat on the other side of the table, stockinged feet pulled up onto the chair away from the cold floor, and a warm cup of tea wrapped in his hands. He was worrying his bottom lip, his mind having drifted to Thorin in the quiet, back to that kiss and he wondered whether he should phone him.

And say what exactly?

‘Sorry I kissed you, like I’ve wanted to do for months?’

He might as well throw caution to the wind and just call and say ‘I love you’ - he was fairly certain now that there was no going back to the way they were and he was even more certain that he didn’t want to. His mother always told him that love should be entered into freely, with passion, with abandon, or not at all. And that there was nothing quite like it, being deeply, madly in love.

And there wasn’t.

He could imagine her now, berating him for being such a coward, for running away from something wonderful, all because what? _He was scared?_

The man was probably worried - he had a tendency to do so when there was no need to - and Bilbo had left him and then run away without so much as a word. He should at least tell him where he was. That he was an uncle now too.

Boldness coursing through him at his resolution, Bilbo’s fingers inched towards the phone resting on the table, jumping back as it rang suddenly. The sharp shrill sound ripped through the kitchen, shocking the poor baby Frodo to tears. Drogo glared at the phone and started to shush his bawling child and Bilbo picked up the handset, dashing from the kitchen before raising it to his ear.

"Hello?"

“What have you done to my brother?” the person of the other line began straightforwardly. Bilbo froze in place in the corridor.

“Dís?” he asked in bemusement, “Why are you calling me?”

“Thorin is in a terrible mood,” she said plainly, he could almost picture shrugging her shoulders, “Have you two had a fight?”

Frowning, he began to worry at his bottom lip with his teeth and moved just inside one of the living rooms, perching on the arm of the sofa.

“No, no we haven’t.”

Dís gave a resigned sigh, “What's he done?”

“Nothing!” he protested. Goodness, did Thorin think he’d done something wrong? “It's more what I-” he cut himself off abruptly, not really wanting to admit to Thorin’s sister just how much of a coward he’d been. She caught it though.

“What? _You_ did something?”

Poor Thorin, she sounded so surprised.

“No...Maybe?” he tried evasively, silently berating himself for how it came out like a question.

“Bilbo.”

He gulped at her tone, the no-nonsense one, with the underlying threat of anger she used whenever Fíli or Kíli, or Thorin for that matter, were being particularly obnoxious.

“I might have kissed him.” He winced at the confession; it seemed wrong somehow, telling someone you’d kissed their sibling. “On New Year's, whilst drunk.”

He wasn’t sure why he added that last bit, perhaps as some sort of excuse, though in his mind it made the whole thing a little worse.  

“Why is that an issue?” She sounded confused though it was laced with a certain brightness and he bit his lip, dreading what he was to say next.

“Its more what I did afterwards that is an issue…” he began, trailing off with a heavy sigh.

“And what would be?” she prompted after he paused for slightly too long. The good humour had gone, replaced with something more dangerous, more protective.

“I ran away,” he said plainly, wrinkling his nose in disgust at his own cowardice. “Then I had to come to Gloucester for my nephew's birth. And I didn't tell him.”

Dís made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. He could see her in his mind, pinching the bridge of her nose as if to ward off a frustration induced headache. “No wonder he's been a broody cesspit of despair.”

Bilbo felt his brow tighten into a frown because really, there was no way he could have that much of an effect on Thorin. “What on earth do you mean?

Dís was incredulous. “Do you really not know?”  

“Know what?”

“You are both such idiots,” she ground out, then she burst out, all bluster, her words only gentling at the end, “About Thorin's feelings for you! He’ll think you regret it, that you don't want it, don't want him.”

“He- Me- Huh- What?” Bilbo stammered out, his mind malfunctioning. Thorin? Thorin had feelings for him? Surely not! But then what reason would Dís have to lie? His chest swelling joyfully, a smile began to spread on his lips.

“God give me strength,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “You're as bad a each other.” After a moment she addressed again, her tone carefully empty, though it still held a slight note of pleading, of uncertainty. “Please, just tell me I'm not mistaken, tell me you feel the same.”

“I do,” he managed, tone oddly strangled as he was still staring at the carpet with a disbelieving smile.

Thorin’s sister let out a breath in relief.

“Good,” she paused momentarily, “And offer my congratulations to your cousins.”

Then she hung up, abruptly and without so much as a ‘goodbye’ and leaving Bilbo in silence, phone still raised to his ear.

Thorin felt the same. It wasn’t hopeless - quite the opposite in fact.

“Who was that?” Drogo asked, from where he was still sat at the table, a once again quiet Frodo nursed in his arms. Bilbo blinked, completely unaware that he had made the short journey back to the kitchen. Prim poked her head around the door of the fridge, somehow smirking at him around the apple in her mouth.

“Dís.”

His friend raised her eyebrows, “Thorin's sister? What did she want?”

“She wanted to know what I'd done to him,” he replied before he could think better of it, putting the phone back in it’s cradle.

Both his cousin and his wife looked like the cat that got the cream, making his cheeks burn crimson.

“Oh so he didn't react well to the whole snog and skedaddle then?”

“...he loves me…” he murmured, quiet enough that he wasn’t sure they heard him. Glancing at their expressions he could see that they had; Prim was looking at him carefully and Drogo’s mouth opened into a small, amazed gape. “At least that's what Dís said,” he added, with poorly feigned nonchalance.

“Then why the hell are you still here?” Surprisingly, that came from Drogo, though both were looking at him as if he were a few cards short of a whole deck.  

“What?”

“Go Bilbo.” Drogo smiled then, bright and reassuring. “Go get him.”

He looked to Prim, who gave an encouraging nod, then turned on his heels, practically running down the hall to his room, slippers skidding slightly on the wood floor. Carelessly, he threw all his belongings back into the case, though not really minding if he were to miss anything. By the time he reached the hall, Drogo was already waiting in his shoes and coat, car keys in hand. He bestowed three quick kisses, one to each of Prim’s cheeks and one to Frodo’s tiny forehead before calling out a goodbye and a promise to return. During the drive to the station, Drogo regarding him in merriment as he fidgeted and babbled nonsensically.

When they parted, he reiterated his words of support in a whisper as he wrapped Bilbo in a bear hug.

“Go get your man Bilbo.”

He sat, antsy, the entire train journey, foot jumping up and down and fingers drumming an staccato rhythm on the windowsill. All of a sudden, his phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out to see an obnoxious message of good luck from Prim. With a sigh, he stared at the screen for a moment. He let his finger hover over Thorin's name for a moment, wanting nothing more than to speak to him, to hear that deep voice, but it seemed wrong somehow - this had to be done in person - and he scrolled to Bofur's name, typing a hurried message to his friend.

' _On my way home. Need to speak to Thorin._ '

Barely, it seemed had he sent it that he received a reply. And it was, as Bofur always was, incredibly blunt.

' _You do. I think you broke him._ ’

Bilbo bit his lip as the guilt surged in his chest once again.

He nearly dropped his phone again as it buzzed in his hand a few seconds later.

_‘I think he’s been even grumpier than when he moved in. Seriously.’_

Involuntarily, a smile twitched on his lips as he remembered ranting to Bofur about being on the receiving end of Thorin’s initial surliness. Oh how far they had come; now, _now_ Bilbo was in a mad dash across country to tell him he loved him.

A slightly mischievous smirk twisting at his lips, he typed out a reply.

 _‘Hopefully I can fix that._ ’

 _‘So should I knock at yours or his tomorrow?_ ’

Bilbo could just picture Bofur’s salacious grin at that, but he did not feel embarrassed.

 _‘My bed’s not made so I’m going to have to stay somewhere,’_ he wrote, then after a moment’s pause, caved and added that suggestive winking face.

_‘Mr Baggins! I am appalled.’_

_‘Shouldn’t you be working?’_

_‘Your sex life is far more interesting than people who are already drinking at this point on a Thursday.’_

_‘I’m flattered.’_

He put his phone away as there was announcement over the loudspeaker announcing their momentary arrival in London and he stood, pulling his bag from the overhead compartment and preparing himself to run for a taxi.

The slow drive through the busy streets of London abated his nervous energy somewhat so that when he stepped through the doors into the foyer of Arda Court, he felt oddly calm.

The lift was starting to close as he reached it and he dove through the doors, his bag almost becoming trapped in them. Thranduil, who lived up on the fifth floor, was looking at him in that detached manner of his that made Bilbo shift uncomfortably.

“In a hurry?” He arched one of his impressive eyebrows at him.

“I have something I need to sort out,” he replied vaguely.

“Did you have a fight with your boyfriend?” Thranduil continued.

Bilbo frowned at him in confusion, “My boyfriend?”

“The tall, unpleasant one, scowls a lot.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened as understanding dawned, “Oh no, Thorin’s not my-”

The lift arrived at the third floor, cutting him off and Bilbo backed out of the lift with a hurried goodbye before turning and bursting into his flat. With a quick glance at his watch, he realised Thorin would not be home yet and he felt his shoulders sink slightly as he deflated and his bag slipped, landing heavily on the floor.

Without really thinking about it, he ended up out on his balcony, leaning on the railing as he looked out across the city. The late afternoon sun had dropped behind him, the blue sky before him steadily deepening, streaked with wispy grey clouds. He was still in his coat so the cooling of the air as night fell did not bother him as it should have.

“Bilbo?” a surprised voice sounded, somewhere to his left and he turned to find Thorin in the doorway to his own flat, something akin to wonderment in his eyes.

And he saw it then, and wondered how he’d never seen it before, the incredible fondness, the _affection_ in those blue, blue eyes.

Gosh, he had been an idiot hadn’t he?

“You’re back,” the man murmured, still looking as if he couldn’t quite believe Bilbo was there.

In a few short steps Bilbo was at his usual place on the balcony, facing Thorin, his apology whirling in his mind but not quite making the transformation into words.

“I have a nephew,” he managed instead, “His name is Frodo.”

Pulling out his phone, he flicked through to the photo of Frodo curled in his mother’s arms and held it out for Thorin to take. A familiar heat sparked in his stomach at the brush of their fingers, only intensifying as Thorin gave a gentle smile at the picture.

“He’s beautiful.”

Bilbo took his phone back with an agreeing smile.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but Drogo rang just after,” he swallowed thickly, hoping that the dim light would hide the flush prickling at his neck, “I came back here, and I left pretty much straightaway.”

“It’s fine,” Thorin said, still with that slight smile. Then he gave a wry, humourless chuckle, the sound deep and beautiful and heartbreaking, coiling itself around Bilbo’s chest and squeezing painfully. “I thought I had- That you did not-” He gave a frustrated sigh and raked his hand roughly through his hair. He had not cut it in a while, Bilbo noted, and it fell messily about his ears, one piece hanging in front of his eyes and the other man had to restrain himself from reaching across the gap and tucking it away. “You were he gone,” he sighed, “And I thought…”

Dís had been right, he realised; Thorin had thought Bilbo’s disappearance had somehow been _his_ fault. And he still thought that, even now, if the way he looked almost hopeless, not quite meeting Bilbo’s eyes, instead fixing his gaze just above his shoulder.

“I just had a very interesting conversation with your sister,” he heard himself say, before he really had much chance to think on what to say, how to approach this.

Blue eyes had snapped to his then, wide and filled with an emotion somewhere between hope and trepidation.

“And she told me something,” he continued, ignoring the stab of sadness in his gut as Thorin’s head dropped so he was looking down at the space between them. “Something that made me jump on the next train to London.”

“What did she say?”

Thorin’s voice was tight and Bilbo’s hand shot across to rest upon one of his fists as it clenched the railing.

“That you loved me, more or less.” And now it was Bilbo’s turn to avoid Thorin’s gaze, not quite wanting to look into those eyes just yet, scared his resolve would crumble and he would kiss him before he got all he needed to say.

He gave a sigh, lacing his next words with fond exasperation,

“How could you not think I wanted you, _loved you,_  you beautiful, impossible man?”

He dared meet Thorin’s gaze then and his breath was almost knocked from him at the love in those eyes, at the brilliant smile dawning as Bilbo’s words processed.

So Bilbo decided to cave and he leaned over and kissed those curved lips fiercely.

Thorin kissed back, pressing and insistent, his hand cupping Bilbo’s neck, fingers curling in the short hairs at the nape. The bar of the railing was wedged uncomfortably in his stomach and he was balanced precariously on his toes but he found himself unable to care because it was _perfect_.

As Thorin’s lips grazed his lower lip he forced himself to pull away, and he lowered himself so he was flat on his feet once more.

“Inside?” he offered, catching Thorin’s shiver; the man was in one of his cotton button down shirts, just home from work.

Thorin smiled then and Bilbo ran through his flat and through the door, skidding to halt at his neighbour’s door as it opened.

Bilbo was fairly certain that ridiculous smile was reflected on his own face. Reaching up, he slipped his arms around Thorin’s neck, tugging him down to capture those lips in his own. It was pretty hard to kiss, he mused, when you were both grinning like idiots.

“I love you,” Bilbo whispered tenderly, each word causing their lips to brush.

Thorin’s arms, which held Bilbo snug to his warm chest, tightened infinitessimally and he moved his head to murmur his own reply in Bilbo’s ear.

“I love you too.”

They both seemed to realise they were half in the corridor then and, giggling slightly, Bilbo backed Thorin into his own flat before rejoining their lips once more.

Thorin shut the door and Bilbo found himself pressed against it as their kiss deepened, growing ever more intense that Bilbo was glad for the strong arms supporting him because he was pretty sure his knees would give out underneath him.

Thorin moaned, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest and it resonated in Bilbo’s own. At some point, he broke away to fasten his mouth to Thorin’s collarbone, enjoying the sounds his alternating kisses and grazes of teeth elicited from the taller man. Thorin’s hand slipped under his coat and the hem of his jumper to trace searing circle on the bare skin at the small of his back.

The moment was broken then as Bilbo’s stomach growled, loud and unbidden, and Bilbo could feel Thorin’s quiet laugh more than he heard it. He managed a small, embarrassed smile against Thorin’s neck before he pulled away.

“I… err… forgot dinner,” he mumbled.

Thorin chuckled again and pecked Bilbo’s nose once, then twice when he wrinkled it.

“You’re ridiculous. I love you.”

Bilbo would never tire of hearing that.

“You’re worse, but I love you too.”

He doubted he’d tire of saying it even less.

The following morning, when he awoke, it was curled into a warm side with light kisses being pressed to the shell of his ear. He was certain he could happily spend the rest of his days waking up to this. Not even the distant calls of Smaug could temper his beatific mood, their sound melting away to nothingness as he tilted his head up and he saw those wonderful blue eyes regarding him with a lazy sort of amazement.

“Good morning,” Thorin greeted softly. “I think I could get used to this.”

Bilbo smiled, “It is rather perfect.”

And it was.

Because there was nothing quite like it; being madly, deeply in love. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done!  
> I just want to say a tremendous thank you to everyone who has read this, followed this story along the way, whose comments made me smile rather idiotically - you're all wonderful.  
> As always, I post updates on my [tumblr](http://theindianwinter.tumblr.com/)  
> I already have something new in the works, it's called 'And Straight On 'Til Morning' and hopefully I will be publishing the prologue in a week or two.  
> Once again, thank you all.  
> I'm going to miss writing this, the shameless fluff that it is.


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